Who's Next?
It’s 4:00am, and I’m typing this into the Notes section of my phone.
The light is bright enough for my dog —nestled at the edge of my bed — to look up for a moment at me, but not bright enough to wake up my husband who is peacefully sleeping.
I can’t sleep. I’m going to be exhausted when the sun replaces the light of my phone. But this is a familiar tired — the tired that comes with experiencing racism day after day after day.
Two words could have avoided all of this:
“Who’s next?” or “Her turn” could have avoided all of this. If any of those happened, I’d be asleep, resting for a long day of writing. But, instead, I’m up at 4:00am typing this.
Every person of color has multiple stories of being ignored, overlooked, or stepped in front of in their lives. To be honest, it’s the norm for me. I grew up in a predominantly White town, the place where this latest incident happens, went to a predominantly White school, college, and workplace. And, even though I moved one mile away from that predominantly white town and into a majority Black and Brown city, I can’t avoid doing business in my small white town. I run there. I take karate there. I get my hair done there.
And, I buy chocolates there.
While this incident happens more often than not, this one yesterday is keeping me up at 4:00am. I had just finished a long semester working closely to empower future educational leaders to dismantle racism in schools. For the past 9 months, I have been feverishly working 8-10-12 hour days in live workshops with organizations who have committed to racial justice and anti-racism. I take on their fragility, their frustration, and their over-reliance on book clubs, and I turn that all around to action, to social change, and to productive agitation. When I am logged on, you see an energetic version of me, DJ’ing playlists as we get settled and in between breaks. When I hit “end meeting”, I collapse - the weight of convincing people that racism is bad and that my humanity can be wrapped up in a 60-minute workshop is exhausting. I’m exhausted from smiling on camera and making sure that I hit that balance of “not too mean” and “not too nice.” I have 60 seconds to breathe. To cry. To fix my face. And then, I click “Join Meeting” and do it all again. For nine months.
But Saturday, I had finished all of my workshops. I structured time off to recover. I finished grading my last paper. A friend asked me to help get a gift for his wife. I drove to my local chocolate shop - a place I have regularly been going for the 40 years that my family has lived in town - and picked up a gift. As usual, I am the only Brown person in the store of just a handful of customers. I scan the shelves looking for my favorite treat that I share with my son: a small package of milk chocolate cashew turtles. It’s our special treat. We love going there just to grab this tiny little box. The shelves were empty where the pre-boxed turtles are, so I head to the candy counter where I spot some on display. I was ready to go to the register and forget our treat, but after the year I’ve had, the semester I’ve had, and the exhaustion I was feeling, I decided, “Nah, Liza. Treat yo’ self! Go get one for you and one for E!”
Just ahead of me is a man and his wife ordering chocolates. I wait patiently behind the blue line - an indicator of life in 2020 - and listen to him select, one by one, all of the assorted chocolates he wants to fill the box. I feel annoyed — wishing he would just go to the shelf and grab an assorted box. But, I tell myself, “Nah, sir. Treat yo’ self. Get whatever assorted little chocolates you want for you and your wife.”
There is no one else in front of the counter but us.
I wait. Patiently.
A few more customers enter the store, increasing the ratio of white people to me, now, by 10:1.
I see a white woman behind the counter slowly head my way. After patiently waiting, I am 30 seconds away from these cashew turtles. Sweet, delicious, Lord above!
And then, it happened. Slow motion. I saw it.
The employee makes eye contact with me, begins to walk towards me. I begin to walk towards her, knowing exactly what is about to happen.
She spots a white woman walking towards the counter.
Employee stops in front of the white woman who came from across the room.
Employee says to white woman, who had not been anywhere near the counter, “What can I get for you?”
Here we go …. again.
I have three choices at this point.
Lose my sh*t. “No. No. Nope. Nah uh. Nope. No way. You literally saw me. We made eye contact. I have been waiting here for 5 minutes to get 2 pieces of chocolate. You will NOT help her. You will help ME. You will NOT cut in front of me.” Someone will film this. Someone will call the police. It’ll likely be someone I know from high school but who I haven’t seen in 30 years who responds to the call. And, every white person who ever thought I was “too aggressive” will be validated. I’ll go to the register with my bag of passively aggressive bagged cashew turtles, and I’ll feel the whispers behind me and the looks of “What’s wrong with her?”
Take a deep breath and respond in a way that will not trigger white people and endure the burden of being civil and nice. “Excuse me. Hi, yes, hello friend. I’m sure this was just a big mistake, and you never would do this on purpose, but I was here first, is that okay if I get my chocolates now?” and say it without an ounce of sarcasm because, after all, I now represent my entire race and every other person of color who ever had to buy anything in a store.
Do nothing. I am the only person of color in the store. I am wearing a sweatshirt that reads “Disrupt racism.” I am known in this town, as is my family. Saying nothing is how I have been taught to live in this town for 42 years. This is how we do it here. Even though there are Black Lives Matter signs now, this town still has inherent issues.
This is exhausting.
And it puts the burden on ME to address microaggressions and racism and feeling invisible and othered.
I’m confident the employee isn’t up with me at 4:00am wondering what could have gone differently. I’m confident the white woman who didn’t take 2 seconds to see if anyone was ahead of her isn’t up at 4:00am wondering what could have gone differently.
Yet, here I am. The unspoken taxation of racial microaggressions impacting me and no one else.
If she had simply paused, scanned the counter and asked, “Who’s next?” I would have said, “Thanks for asking - it’s me.” If the customer had simply said, “Her turn,” I would have said, “Thanks! That almost never happens, so I appreciate you so much!”
But, that’s not what happened. Two words. Two words could have changed all of this.
Now, I’m going to name this. Most people who are not POC are going to read this and immediately create scenarios in which this could have been a mistake. STOP. Just stop. If anything from Summer 2020 has taught you, just listen. Check your feelings. Check your assumptions. Racism is real. Just stop. I’m tired.
As the employee was helping this white woman, I was (not) in shock. I stood there, giving her the opportunity to take it back or do over. Waiting for her to say, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I should have taken this customer who was waiting first. Hang on a moment.” Despite social distancing rules, I stayed in front of the counter as the white woman who was being helped made her way towards me, trying to peek at the candy selection across/around/past my body. The employee stood in front of me. Both annoyed that I was now in the way. Oh, you see me now, do you? I am now sandwiched in between two white women who, if I say anything, will align together as mirrors to each other’s experiences. It’s time for me to leave.
I shook my head, walked away from the service counter, and made my way to the register. A group of men were chatting 2 feet from the register, and I turned to them, made eye contact and said, “Excuse me, are you next in line?”
They turned and said, “No, we are just waiting here, but thanks for asking.”
“Yup.”
I placed my items on the belt, trying to slow my breathing. Trying to hold back tears until I could get out the door.
The cashier asked if I found everything I needed.
“I tried. But unfortunately, someone was served at the counter before I was, even though I was waiting and following social distancing rules. So, I’m going to leave this store without everything I needed.”
“Can I go get it for you?”
“No. I just want to pay for my things and get out of here.”
I’ve been coming to this chocolate store since 1980. For 40 years.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of it being on me to manage microaggressions. I'm tired of being up all night playing and re-playing scenarios. I’m tired of white people stepping ahead of me. I’m tired of other white people not saying anything. I’m tired of white people cutting in line. I’m tired of white people assuming there isn’t a line they have to stand in.
I’m tired of posting stories like this and my friends of color responding, “It happens to me all the time.”
Who’s next?