As I mentioned in previously, this little blog has to tackle the big problems from time to time, and so we will do with this edition. We will address a hot button issue in the United States: racial relations.
To my parent’s credit, I was not brought up to be a racist or prejudiced in any way. I don’t ever remember my parents speaking poorly about someone just because he (or she) was an African-American or Hispanic or anything else. Don’t get me wrong: they would castigate the “jerks” in this world but such people come in all colors, and there is no correlation between being of the darker sort and behaving in this undesirable way.
As such, I have never considered myself to be prejudiced. I wouldn’t say I was perfect, but I don’t see that as part of my DNA, whereas someone brought up in such an environment would have these attitudes by default. I don’t, I believe.
Being that as it is, I had a telling incident a few years ago. I was standing first in the check-out line at Walmart waiting for some underpaid attendant to walk all the way back to the store for a price check – all the while the line behind me got longer and longer, and those in it were coming to understand that I was the cause of all their misery – yea, perhaps all the misery on the face of the planet – and their looks said as much.
There stood the cashier, and there stood me, both waiting and bored. It so happened that she was black (African American) and I was White (Caucasian).
After a while, she said, “You could have used the self-checkout.”
She was correct, but I gave her my stock answer: “I don’t use self-checkout because I want Walmart to hire my teenager.”
I have said this about 50 times over the years and every time I am immediately understood, since it’s about jobs. But this time I am not.
She has the personality type to question – and in front of everyone – something you said at a Christmas Eve party, when all you did was misspoke, but to her, it is serious. We were not, however, at a Christmas party but at Walmart, and keeping with her general personality type, she said, “You should have used the self-checkout. It’s really easy.”
I now made my first mistake. I tried to explain myself.
“I don’t like using the self-checkout because Walmart is using them so people have to do all the work themselves and Walmart doesn’t have to hire extra help. Walmart should hire me and pay me as a cashier if they want me to do that.”
Mind you, at this point I am not popular, as everyone in the line could be out of the store and riding around on a beautiful spring day, but instead we were all standing in line because of me.
“Anyone can use it. It’s easy,” she said.
I began to explain that I know anyone can use these time-saving devices and that I am smart enough to know how to do it, but understand: it’s about jobs.
And so I explained.
She doesn’t get it. Just use the self-checkout. It’s easy.
“I don’t want to,” I said.
She made a disgusted look, and returned to her stoic, waiting stance.
I blurted out, “I want them to hire more people like you.”
This was my third mistake.
She was taken aback. Her stoic, waiting stance was gone, and another stance presented itself. “That offends me,” she said.
In baseball three strikes, and you are out, and the ball has come across the plate and, swinging, I miss. She thought I am talking about race.
I said, “I didn’t mean it that way!”
She looked at me, the scum that I am, and repeated that she has been offended.
“I meant they should hire more cashiers. It has nothing to do with race.”
Offense still boiled from her face, and the conversation went downhill from here. Rather than doing the sensible thing and shutting this big trap called my mouth, I told her that she is too “racially sensitive.” It did not go over well, as you can well understand.
Another mistake.
Now there was a restive spirit in the line.
I asked to speak to a manager, and she showed up – suddenly being there. I took the manager aside and explained, “Your cashier took something I said wrong – in a racial way, but I know I never meant it that way.”
She was sympathetic but didn’t know what to do. Just then the attendant came back with the correct price, and we had a resolution: get me out of the store. The manager left but the cashier was not using her good customer service skills: she checked me out as if she were dealing with a ship captain who worked the slave trade. Bang, my items were dropped in the plastic bag, and with a jolt, my items now bagged swing around in the Walmart-style round bagging area, though not in a kindly and gentle way. I slid my debit card as quickly as I can – to escape.
I left the store. There was a lot of thought going on in my head on the way home. What just happened? How can I understand it? The truth is I was being one of those “jerks” my parents would talk about, but then again the truth is I never meant what I said in the way she took it.
One bad thing about what happened – and the thing that I thought is dangerous – is that no matter what I said, I was a racist and a bigot. I was guilty. Nothing I said or did would change that, and the more I tried to explain myself, the more guilty I was.
Such is the state of discourse in this country. We no longer discuss but talk past each other; we cannot listen but easily resort to shouting. Our opponents are vilified, and everything is politicized to the point where saying “Merry Christmas” is a political statement. In other words, we cannot get along.
All this is dangerous, and it’s hard to have a democracy where no one is willing to compromise. The last time this happened, a civil war ensued. Lets hope for a better outcome.
I have often thought no one should get upset about Trump (if you don’t like him), and no one should get upset about Obama (if you didn’t like him either). There’s no need to refuse service to your opponents or to encourage quazi-civil disobedence\low level violence. All these differences can be and should be settled at the ballot box. It’s our go-to mechanism to resolve disputes.
Still, I think about that poor Walmart cashier. Perhaps I should have said, “I’m sorry for all the White oppression throughout the centuries. I apologize for slavery, Jim Crow and ongoing inner-city poverty. Come, bring it in: do you need a hug?” Perhaps we would have parted friends. Or maybe I should just pack cards in my wallet that say as much, just in case.
Cancer Chronicles 