Lollipop Friday
2021 $5,000 Scholarship Essay Competition Winner
By Dominique Kalunga, 2021 Scholarship Essay Winner
Whatever else that day at the convenience store might have been, it certainly wasn’t my first experience with racism. I was a black 12 year old and already well acquainted with the often cruel nature of man, and how this nature could be made crueler still when the matter of skin colour was involved. However, that day was the first time I understood how much racism could truly hurt, as well as the parade of emotions that hurt unfortunately heralded.
In our household, it’s common knowledge that Friday is Lollipop Day. Has been since the beginning or time, or what feels like it. Since I was five years old, my father, my brother, and I would head to the local convenience store on the last day of the workweek and each pick out a huge lollipop from their lollipop stand. It’s one of our most sacred traditions, and to this day, has never been broken without the greatest solemnity.
One Friday, my dad sent my brother — who was 8 at the time — and I into the convenience store alone with a fistful of cash. The first thing I noticed was that our friend who usually worked the counter was not there that day. She had been replaced by an older man, a white man, who eyed us as we jangled the bell of the front door. My brother and I both smiled wide, familiar smiles, and made our beeline for the lollipop stand.
And the old man followed us. Came out from around the counter, traipsed across the store, and moved to stand right behind our shoulders as we picked through the candy. At first, I was amused. I thought he wanted to talk, or had a question — we were regulars at the store after all, it was practically a second home to us. But when my brother and I said hello again, he only fixed us with the same hard stare and moved closer.
As one might imagine, things were starting to get uncomfortable. My brother and I chose our lollipops quickly and moved to the chip aisle to get the bag of BBQ our dad had requested. The old man followed us again. When we moved to check out the snowglobes on the other side of the store, he followed us there too. Anywhere we went the man traced our steps as if he wouldn’t dare let us out of his sight for more than a moment.
The first time he spoke was when my little brother reached for a chocolate bar brand he’d always coveted but had never been allowed to buy. “What are you doing?” the old man bit out, “Stop that. Let me see your hand.” My brother dropped the bar like it was coal, and held out an uncertain hand. I held his other hand in mine and pulled him away as soon as the old man seemed appeased. Again, we were followed.
When my brother and I went to pay, the man shuffled behind the counter and said without preamble, “Turn out your pockets.” By this time any amusement we might have once felt was gone. I was old enough to understand what was happening, but my heart was growing heavy with a feeling I didn’t quite understand. I turned out my pants pockets, then helped my little brother — who was confused and antsy — to turn his out. The man then pointed at the pockets of our coats with a stiff finger. “Those ones too.” he snapped, “Now.” We complied.
Handing the man my crumpled ball of bills, the man immediately straightened them out and held them up to the light, checking each one closely for any traces of counterfeit. When he was satisfied, he pushed our chips and candy back to us without a word. We turned to leave the store. He followed us to the door and shut it behind us.
That was the last time we went to that convenience store for Lollipop Friday. When I told my dad about what happened, he was furious. He wanted to go back to the store, yell at the man, talk to his manager, but I begged him not to. My dad was known for getting into fights bigger than himself. “It wasn’t that bad.” I assured him. “I’m sure he didn’t even realize what he was doing.”
But the truth was, I was ashamed, even more than I was angry or upset. I was ashamed that I had let my brother and I be treated that way, in a place we loved so much. I was ashamed by the way the old man must have perceived us. And that shame hurt me much more than any anger could have. Anytime we passed the convenience store after that day and saw the old man — for it seemed he was the new cashier — I would duck away and tell my dad I’d take a roundabout route. I didn’t want to look into his eyes and see an echo of whatever horrible thing he saw when he looked at me.
The things that I was feeling, I carried with me for a long time. I never told anyone about them, and I didn’t know enough to understand them. As such, they informed the way I dealt with racism and other bigotry long into the future. I’ve been called the n-word, the f-word, a monkey, a gorilla, and a slave by both friends and strangers alike, and I’ve just laughed it off. I’ve had servers refuse to serve me, been shoved and shouted out of bathrooms, had my hair picked at and called weird, and I’ve said nothing. It’s not my nonconfrontational response that was the problem, it was how I perceived each situation. Every time, I felt the same shame that the old man at the convenience store first taught me. I thought to myself: They must see something in me. Something bad. And that’s my fault. Why should I stand up and say something? It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t worth it.
It wasn’t until many years later that I came to terms with those feelings, looking in the mirror asking myself why I thought I was ugly and defective and bad. Why, when I was smart enough to know that those thoughts and those feelings were rarely ever reflective of a person’s truth. Why did I still believe it? And then I realized, in one sobering moment; it was because I was black.
Because I will know that whatever happened all those years ago, I am worthy of being here now, worthy of being who I am.
Starting with that man at the convenience store, I had taught myself to be ashamed of the color of my skin, ashamed of the things that set me apart. I realized that when I thought I was being brave and choosing my battles, what I was really doing was neglecting myself — ignoring, or simply not caring about how each experience was wearing at me inside. You have to care, I told myself. You have to care enough about how they make you feel not to let them.
It’s been a long road since then. I’m still very non-confrontational, but I try when I can to get my word in. To let them know, however briefly or softly, that what they are doing cannot hurt me, and I do it not for the sake of revenge, but for myself. To affirm to myself that I matter enough to be worth standing up for. As it is, I’ve still got a long way to go. To this day I struggle with the feelings of self-hatred that years of internalising bigoted actions and comments nurtured. If I had been equipped with the proper emotional tools, I truly believe I would’ve been able to cut the legs of this problem off long before it ever grew to such a size and would have saved myself a lot of trouble. But I am aware of it now, and I’m getting better.
And maybe one day I’ll go back to that convenience store. Revive our original household tradition. Pick up a lollipop, place it on the counter. And whoever is behind the register, I will smile. Because I will know that whatever happened all those years ago, I am worthy of being here now, worthy of being who I am.
Maybe someday soon.
Help support the EQuity Scholarship Essay Competition and keep the dialogue going!
