Nah, I Ain’t Amazon
I gathered my box of Costco groceries from the back seat and walked toward my dorm. It was move-in day at Stanford’s Graduate School of Business. A day I had worked my entire life to achieve.
As I walked up to my new home a classmate exited through the large, wooden double doors of Schwab residential center. We hadn’t formally met, but I recognized her from a summer Zoom meet-and-greet.
When she returned my smile, I was certain that she recognized me too. I felt a warm feeling reverberate through me in anticipation of making my first friend on campus. As we moved closer, she reached out and tried to take the box from my hands. I took a step back, pulling my groceries towards my chest. She paused and, with a confused look, asked, “Amazon?”
The energy evaporated from my body, leaving a cold, insignificant shell. My shoulders slumped, head fell to the side, and eyebrows furled as I froze in disbelief. After a couple of seconds that felt like an eternity, I regained my composure and simply responded, “Nah, I ain’t Amazon.”
My feet remained planted as I looked back at the Amazon driver unloading his truck 100 yards behind. I compared his bright blue vest, cargo shorts, dolly, and Amazon branded hat to my Lululemon outfit and Patagonia backpack. The only thing I could see in common was the color of our skin.
She realized her mistake and mumbled an embarrassed “Oh, my bad,” before continuing on her way. I recognized the event as a microaggression. Something I had experienced, studied, and discussed countless times before. Yet, I still didn’t know how to respond. I sifted through my mental rolodex, examining my options.
I had to say something, anything. Or was it too late? I’ll regret it if I don’t. But did she say it because I’m Black or because I’m carrying groceries? This has happened one too many times to keep giving the benefit of the doubt. OK, say something… but what? I don’t want to make her feel bad or be labeled as “that” Black person…but I also don’t want to deal with this for the next two years.
As I ran through my options, she strolled past me, groceries in hand, and into her dorm.
Missed my chance.
I gathered myself and continued to my room, “Don’t let this ruin your day. Don’t let this ruin your day. It didn’t ruin hers.”
But I couldn’t forget. For the next few hours, days, and weeks I reflected on what I should have done differently. We frequently passed by each other on our way to class, and even exchanged pleasantries at a happy hour, introducing ourselves as complete strangers. I don’t know if she remembered the interaction and was too embarrassed to admit it or forgot instantly. What I do know is that each time I saw her, I relived the indignity and pain I felt in that moment.
I shared my experience with Black classmates and friends to find that everyone had their own version of the same story. The frustration of being repeatedly mistaken for someone who looks nothing like you, the embarrassment of being asked for your credentials to enter your own home, or the anger that arises from someone being surprised at your ability and accomplishments. Sadly, almost three-quarters of Black Stanford graduate students have experienced microaggressions just like these, each instance representing another moment of exclusion and pain.
Unfortunately, when confronted with these moments of prejudice and racism, we remain silent. We hold in our emotions and refuse to make a scene because that’s what we’ve been taught to do. We keep going because that’s what we’ve always done. We hold firm to the belief, passed down for generations, that while progress might be slow, it is also clear and steady.
The problem with that approach is that I’m tired of slow and steady. It’s not unreasonable to demand what you deserve, so that’s what I’m going to do. I know it will be uncomfortable and, at times, conflictual. However, it must be done, so I am challenging myself to speak up and push for more. I’ve since replayed that moment hundreds of times, asking myself what I could have done differently. It’s not a perfect answer, but neither am I:
“Nah, I don’t work at Amazon and these aren’t your groceries. I’m your classmate. Your assumption that I’m not makes me feel like I don’t belong here and that’s wrong, because I do. I don’t need an apology or want a conversation. Instead, I hope that you reflect on why you assumed that I was here to serve you and take action to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
