Another case- Shopping While Black

"We do not debate race here at any meaningful level, but use it to settle old scores and maintain the status quo... So anything that is mildly critical of white society is seen as anti-democratic , prejudiced and radical.

It thus does not serve to unify the nation in any way, but to polarize a dangerously polarized country even further..."

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Tsitsi Dangarembga (via thefemaletyrant)

My junior sister and I share the same heart- otu obi.  Kindred spirits.

It hadn't always been this way however, and gradually, we became entangled into our own personal melodramas, eventually growing apart.

We've worked hard to cultivate the effortless loyalty and link we now share, that we're usually echoing each other's views on most topics.  Our discussions have famously spanned epic time scales.  However, there are occasional instances when we diverge in opinion.  We emerge from these conversations, thwarted by familiar roadblocks and barricades- all our salient points exhausted, and reluctant concessions offered up in truce.  She can be as stubborn as a dog refusing to release the bone clenched between its jaws, but her tenacity forces me to re-examine my own perspectives.

There's a singular issue that's almost cyclic in its occurrence in our debates.  Stripped down to its rawest factor, it centers around a particular reaction to racism.  

What do you do when you're barred access from an establishment?  

We're both proud women.  However, while she would plant her feet into the ground in stubborn refusal of being driven away from any place she had a right to access;  the slightest contemptuous lip curl, would be enough to push me away.  But, my departure would of my own volition, as I never stay where I'm unwanted.

I imagine that during the Civil Rights era, we would've been in different camps.  She- one of our brave martyrs who staunchly refused to leave restaurant diners despite withstanding loathsome violence, and I- more aligned with some of the views of Malcom X,

"We don't go for segregation. We go for separation. Separation is when you have your own. You control your own economy; you control your own politics; you control your own society; you control your own everything. You have yours and you control yours; we have ours and we control ours". 

A recent experience, caused me to review my stance.  Quite a few of us have been here before, unfortunately.  You're leisurely browsing through a store, drawing various items closer in to your gaze for better inspection.  Lipsticks, hair brushes, perhaps a pair of earrings, all pass through your hands, as they're picked up and placed back.  Perhaps, you've idly circled around the space a few times, absentmindedly filing away the retail associates who chirped welcoming greetings to you as you entered the space.  You've even filed away the security guard whom you locked eyes with, the moment you passed through the entrance.  But, you've also caught glimpses of him at the edges of each aisle you've moved through, and now you notice that he's lingering closely.  In a store bustling with patrons, he's been singularly trailing your movements.  In the most abhorrent situation, you're stalked

and murdered.

It happened to me.  I'd spent the end of my work day in Manhattan, sourcing and gathering supplies for a photo shoot.  Bursts of steam left my mouth, as I weaved between people and cars, cursing a lingering winter.  Hurriedly, I adjusted the top flaps of my coat, tugging my scarf snugly against my throat, and sped towards Times Square.  There was still one more store left to visit, and the final 168 express bus would soon be leaving.  

I briskly walked through my favorite Duane Reade, as I'd habitually done for six years, immediately noting that there was an odd fixture in place- a new security guard.  He was a tall blend of stoicism and surliness.  South Asian, I suspected.  I'd also noticed that he hadn't proffered any greetings to me, and yet, as I moved through the aisles feeding my makeup habit, he'd managed to remain within my eye sight.  Initially, I dismissed and I rationalized.  He was simply only surveilling the area, as he'd been hired to do, of course.  How absurd it was to imagine that he would be trailing me, when there were so many other people about.  I was there as a customer and nothing more.  But, once the guard proceeded to adopt a most blatant pose- he'd propped both of his elbows onto the pharmacy counter behind me, where his view of me would be unblocked- my notions became impossible to dismiss.

My breath quickened as my heart beat grew frenzied.  I literally felt dizzied with disbelief.  Out of a store teeming with hundreds of patrons, the guard had singled me out as a potential criminal.  What was the protocol in this situation?

The tube of lipstick I'd been debating purchasing, clattered to the floor, as I turned away from the makeup rack to face him.

"Excuse me?" I politely called to him.

"Excuse me!!" I announced again; forcibly this time, as he'd ignored my first summons. Finally he looked over to me, his face contorted in disdain, like something rotten had assaulted his senses.  His arms were now folded, and he looked affronted, as if I had no right to address him.

"Can I help you?"  I asked him pointedly.

"What?!"  He spat at me, as he dropped his arms and drew himself to his full height.  

"You've been following me ever since I entered this store.  Is there something I can help you with?"  I'd responded.

My lone voice sounded like it was in a vacuum.  He didn't respond.  Instead, he scornfully flicked his arm in my direction, as if my question was too idiotic to address.  A cavalier arm flick meant to dismiss.  I expected to draw in a small crowd of concerned customers as I continued to vocally question why he felt that I needed to be followed.  Passersby would hear the commotion and come to my rescue, the way I'd seen on some What Would You Do episodes.  

But no one came.

A girl, white and tall, with dirty blonde hair breezed down the aisle, instead.  She paused to grab an item off a rack, and continued on her way.  At that moment, I couldn't ignore the unaffected ease of her movements.   As my very own humanity was being sized up, and deemed unfit and out of place, her privilege would never saddle her with such a burden.  

So, I kept talking.  

My entire body vibrated with pressurized energy.  I ranted until the guard shuffled away from me.  I must've looked mad.  I certainly felt it- accused and  abysmally powerless.  Impotent, even.

I searched the store until I found a manager, without a clue of what I expected from him, but I wanted to ensure that this employee of his was reported.  As I moved through the aisles, I passed by the guard a final time.  He'd been heading towards my direction. 

"I will be reporting you."  I announced, as we passed by each other.

 A tall white man also fell into step with me.  His blazer was draped over his left arm, and he clutched a rolled up newspaper and a briefcase in his right hand.

"I thought you were kidding," he exclaimed.  I looked up at him, and noted his amusement.
  Do people kid about being racially profiled?

He'd managed to find humor in my humiliation, and I was disgusted.  He'd also clearly overheard me in distress, but had apparently dismissed that as well.

 Eventually, I spotted the manager.  He was delicately framed, with a head full of dark hair.  He appeared to be South Asian as well, and as I marched towards him, he glanced upwards to the ceilings and then over to me, warily scanning my approach.  Suffice it to say, he discarded my complaint in that patronizing manner people use to exempt themselves from social responsibility.  The validity of my account was questioned.  Perhaps, I'd conjured it all up, he suggested.

With that inane assessment, I left the store.  Throughout my entire ride home, I sat at the edge of my seat, stiff and immobile.  I'd decided to submit a formal letter of grievance to the Duane Reade headquarters.  But, I also brooded over never returning to that particular store, again.  There were hundreds of Duane Reade outlets in the city, and several were accessible to me.  But then, I considered boycotting the pharmacy chain entirely.  After all, I never stayed where I was unwanted, right?

But as I recounted the demeaning experience to my sister, and as I crumpled to the floor in hopeless resignation later that night, I also realized that driving me away from that store had always been the primary intent.

How could I allow anyone to push me away from a place I had a right to be in?

I'd styled my hair in a similar fashion that evening. 

To answer simply, I told myself, I would not.

I'd return to my Duane Reade at the corner of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue, in spite of that night.

While I'm still the fiercest advocate of being able to control our own institutions, businesses, and so forth, I also appreciate that I hold the ultimate power in the luxury of choice.

I decide if I will patronize an establishment and if I will not.  Isn't that what all of this is fundamentally about?

What do you all think?

Have you been a victim of racially profiled?  What was your course of action?