No, I can’t talk to you about race while grocery shopping.
At the height of the Ferguson uprising, I was at home trying to balance meeting my customer’s demands while running a business and finding ways to show up for my community that was grieving. The murder of Mike Brown, Jr. happened about 2 miles from my home. It was a day that changed not just my life but the lives of many others forever.
I was living with my mom, who had just started her vacation from work. This availability allowed us to house food for protestors, school books, and materials for children who experienced a delayed start to the school year. Our house was a meeting point for activists like DeRay McKesson, Brittany Ferrell, and even journalists who would stop by to ask me questions about the history of Ferguson’s racial dynamic to questions they had no business asking, like how protestors stayed in contact with each other. All of us, local to Ferguson or not, were deeply entwined with radical activism for the first time. This meant a lot of trauma for so many people who lost jobs and housing, whose businesses suffered (including my own), and who were the unfortunate victims of violence and police brutality. Some people burned out quickly, and others trudged on at the expense of their mental and physical health.
On the other side, there were many allies; white, Asian, and non-black POC, who tried to understand what was happening and why it was happening. They were called upon to provide support by way of their physical presence at protests, by donating food and first aid items, and monetarily. They were also asked to start meeting with each other and discuss race relations in America, systemic and structural oppression, microaggressions, and other line items that bullet point themselves under the header of “Racism.” Inside out, up and down, black people bore the work of educating others seemingly around the clock. It wasn’t just online through Twitter feeds that we had to answer questions, engage in discussions, and even document the protests. We encountered these things out in the real world, usually with strangers we didn’t know and in spaces that were not safe.
The topic of entitlement comes up often, and when speaking about it through the lens of race, white privilege and entitlement will eventually lead the conversation. What I experienced just a few months before the one-year anniversary of Mike Brown, Jr.’s murder was an encounter that I had yet to face. I am used to white people using their bodies to occupy a space you need to get to in a grocery store or using their bodies to push you out of a space you are currently occupying.
One of the best examples I have experienced is shopping at my local Whole Foods Market. I was in the store on a weekend, which meant that it would be busy. We all turn down the aisle too quickly and nearly miss crashing our carts into that of another shopper. It is a simple understanding, given the time and the day. In the Midwest, we have an obsession with the word “Ope” to express our mistake and our apology for being in the way or doing something that most people would say “Pardon me” or “Excuse me” for. However, what happened to me was different. I went to stand in one of the many long lines to checkout. An older woman stood in line behind me with her cart. Neither one of us was blocking the walkway for other shoppers to get through, but she kept inching her cart forward. Sometimes, you can just sense these things. You can feel when someone is nearby or that they may be very close to you, even if you can’t see them. So, I moved forward just a bit because there was another shopper ahead of me. She inched forward again, and her cart tapped my ass. It happens. It wasn’t a big deal, but I did look back behind me so that I could lock eyes with her. This was not a subtle non-verbal gesture. She was an older woman who looked to be in her mid-60s. Maybe she had children, maybe she didn’t. Perhaps she was an aunt, maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was partnered, perhaps she never had a long-time lover. Regardless of her designation in a social interpersonal setting, she knew what my look meant. “The look” is the look a mother gives her child that is acting up in the grocery store, the doctor’s office, or at church. It is the key facial expression that translates to, “I’m watching you, and you have one more time to do what you did or else…but it’s in your best interest to make this time the last time.”
I turned back around to anticipate putting my groceries on the conveyor belt. I moved up just a teeny bit more because accidents happen. My first thought was that she wasn’t paying attention and moved forward more than she needed to. It was OK because things happen. Then I felt another tap. This time it wasn’t on my ass, but the back of my leg. Her cart hit me in my Achilles tendon, the part that’s exposed just above the back of your tennis shoe. Before I even realized what I was doing, I turned around and pushed her cart into her. “Stop hitting me with your cart!” I said. There wasn’t a single drop of remorse on her face. She knew what she was doing. For one reason or another, she decided that was the day to antagonize someone with a shopping cart. I can’t say that this was motivated by race at all. She could have done this to anyone, but as a black person, my worldview is slightly different based on other experiences I’ve had throughout my life. When I left the store, I could only think about Whole Foods in terms of who gets to shop there and who doesn’t. The location is in a mostly white suburban area, near other high-end stores and restaurants. This was her store that she deserved to be at, it did not matter to her that our dollars spend the same way. Her small act’s aim was to cause discomfort and possibly make me consider not shopping at that particular location again.
I had to remind myself repeatedly that I do not exist for anyone’s comfort.
Fast forward to the spring of 2015, I’m out running errands, and I go to a local grocery store to run in and grab a few things. I was wearing a black t-shirt with the text “Freedom Summer FERGUSON” in white and teal across the front. I had just made it to the entrance when I was stopped by an older white man. He looked to be in his mid-70s or even mid-80s from how wrinkled his skin was. He was a little taller than me with a slender build, and he was wearing khaki pants and a plaid shirt.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I responded. I thought he was about to ask a question about the store or maybe the items they place right at the entrance, like flowers and firewood.
“Can you share your thoughts with me and how you feel about all of this Mike Brown stuff?” he asked.
“No, I cannot,” I said.
I continued walking into the store and tried to get my things while addressing the flurry of questions I was asking myself. Was it my shirt? Can I not wear anything that says “Ferguson” on it now? Why did he think it was okay to stop me in front of the store? Is my resting bitch face not working today? What if someone overheard us? Is he in the store also? Will he wait for me to come back out?
Sometimes, my anxiety won’t let things just be, and I had to talk myself down, but I can’t say that I was caught off guard by what he had asked me. I talked about the encounter with friends, and everyone was just as appalled as I was. It was bizarre, uncomfortable, and briefly led to the feeling that I was a bad person for not doing the polite thing of answering his question. I had to remind myself repeatedly that I do not exist for anyone’s comfort, especially that of someone I do not know.
Later that summer, I was invited to speak at the Black Student Alliance’s Blacktivism conference at Emory University in Atlanta. One of the members was a student I had met and worked with while he did volunteer work in Ferguson. My parting gift from the event was a black shirt with “Blacktivism” and “Emory University” in white text across the front.
Do you see where this is going?
I wore the shirt on a quick trip to Barnes & Noble, located in an affluent neighborhood outside St. Louis city. I needed to get a few copies of a magazine that featured a product I sold for my business. I grabbed it along with the September issue of Vogue and walked up to the checkout counter. The clerk scanned my items, and she told me my total. She was a white woman in her late 40s with dark long hair and glasses. I reached for my credit card to pay. As I swiped my card, she asked, “Do you mind telling me about your experience as a black woman?” Just my luck. Another day, another white person, and another surprise question that centers blackness in a public setting that I do not feel safe in.
I gave her “the look.” The same look I gave the woman in Whole Foods. She backtracked and said, “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I’m just trying to understand a lot of things.”
I had time, so I offered her a suggestion and said, “There are groups of people that meet and talk about these things. I recommend looking online for resources that can help you.”
I grabbed my bag and walked away. For the second time in months, I wondered why those two people thought it was okay to ask me such things in public. Was I a safe, non-threatening, “approachable” looking black woman? Had they stopped any other black person and asked them these questions too? Was it my shirt? Was it the area I was in? I tried to reach for a reason, and I couldn’t arrive at one. Hands down, neither place was ideal for the discussion to take place. To me, these are sensitive topics that must be tended to with care as much as context. Neither question that they asked was something I could answer in one or two sentences. Neither question was preceded with, “Do you have a moment to answer a question or to talk about something with me?” I do not know their names. They did not introduce themselves to me. There wasn’t even any mention of sensitivity. You know how you’re unsure about mentioning something to someone because you don’t know how they’ll take it? And how some type of conversational etiquette takes place beforehand? All of that was missing. Each instance was fueled by entitlement.
So, here’s our full circle moment. Both people had an expectation that I would answer their questions. They both knew that their questions were about race. They were not asking me my opinion about the type of eggs I buy or the books I like to read. Both approached me with questions when I was vulnerable. You feel at ease at your local grocer, and there’s usually no quieter, more peaceful place than a bookstore. These are spaces that I’ve been in many times over the course of my life. I have no apprehension about entering those spaces as a free black person living in America. In an instant, both people transformed those spaces into ones I now have to be more mindful of. For a while after both incidents, I walked more quickly in stores, and when I thought a white person was getting ready to ask me a question, I would turn away. I remember a woman going on about the rising cost of a basic item, and I looked at her, got what I needed, and walked off. I felt stripped of comfort in doing my general errand running.
Exploring race and other topics like it with black people requires time, patience, and some preparation. It is not a topic that you can fully engage with and discuss in five minutes. Trauma, past and current experiences, what we see on the news, and what we see online continue to compound our emotions, and at times, we don’t feel like discussing race, or we’re simply too tired to engage in the conversation. It is a lot of work explaining race to some white and non-black people of color, especially if they’ve been so sheltered that they’re having their consciousness awakened for the very first time. Not to say that people like this are children, but it does turn into an infantilized conversation. It is like explaining the complexity of color theory to a kindergartner. Lastly, knowing ahead of time that this will be the discussion allows me to gauge if I even want to participate in it. I may be in a space where I’m sad or angry, and I don’t want to think about, let alone talk about, race relations. Maybe I’m just too tired to have the discussion and would rather wait until after I’ve had proper rest. It is also helpful to know who I am engaging with. Is it a room full of white people who just want to debate, or is it a room full of Latin/Hispanic people who kind of understand but need a little bit more information? Everything I say has to be tailored to who I am speaking with. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is the fact of the matter.
Changing how I move in public spaces at the time may have kept me from being approached in this way since then. Thankfully, those have only been the two instances (so far) that anyone has asked a question like that in a public setting. We can engage with each other in appropriate spaces for learning, like schools, community centers, and churches. Formal meetings with agendas and outlines can assist in the flow of sensitive conversations such as these. Entitlement has no place in this arena. Entitlement causes conversations to lean into “give me what I want when I want it.” It is abrasive and unbalanced, reinforcing the dynamic of servitude to someone with perceived superiority. The work it takes for all involved has to be met with the understanding that, as a collective, we are all burnt out and exhausted. If a black person chooses not to engage, that is their choice. It does not impact the work that white people can do on their own to learn about race. There are tons of resources in the form of books, videos, and podcasts available. There are speakers and writers like Rachel Cargle (The Great Unlearn) who have specifically curated materials on becoming better allies and better at understanding how race relations impact people of color. These are all great places to start as long as someone is willing to take the first step and none of them requires stopping a stranger in the grocery store.
