Retail Racism?

Back in the early-nineties, while attempting to nudge a part-time gig in my chosen field (book publishing) into a full-time one, I worked a second part-time job in retail. Fortunately, it didn't demand that I sell Dockers at Sears or patio furniture at Montgomery Wards. 

I worked in a record store.

It was ideal in a way, having a foot in both the book and music worlds. But working six days a week and literally morning, noon and night for two or three days per without health insurance or paid time off was wearying.

But not so wearying that I didn't notice thieves in my record store.

“Teresa? Watch that woman in the jean jacket and long skirt, will you?” I ducked beneath the counter. Despite being an amazingly attractive man, I knew the men and women eying me weren't seeking a hook-up.

Nope. They wanted to know when it would be safe to stuff a CD down their pants. Or under a jacket. Or in a bag suspended between their legs beneath an oversized skirt. At the time, only cosmetics were pilfered more often than CDs in the United States.

“Oh my god!” gasped Teresa. Bingo.

I accosted the woman outside. I took her by the arm and urged her towards the store. Just then an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight squealed to a stop in front of the store. “LaWanda! Get in!”

Raised in an environment where I was taught it was wrong to manhandle women, I wasn't as forceful as I should have been with LaWanda. She broke free and made it to the car.

I memorized the license plate and called the police.

This scenario played itself out many times. Most-disturbing to me was that the thieves were almost always African-American. And by almost always I mean over ninety-percent of the time.

An idealistic but naive co-worker chastised me for watching African-Americans more-closely than Caucasians. He called me a racist.

I shrugged my shoulders. 

Was I acting on accumulated experience? Or was I profiling? Maybe it's just that African-Americans were really crappy thieves?

I ask because in the wake of the recent brouhaha over a denied restroom visit at a Starbuck's in Philadelphia and the attendant accusations of retail racism, I have to question the M.O. of the offenders.

There exists a persistent and unfortunate ethos in the ghetto that demands that its inhabitants constantly prove their “blackness”. This usually involves acting in such a way that is one-hundred and eighty-degrees removed from the societal norms of white America.

Once upon a time, I had a big, giant chip on my shoulders about employers. After being unjustly removed from a job I loved because I didn't bestow a sufficient number of pliant kisses on a director's ample bottom, I grew my hair and dressed in jeans and inflammatory political t-shirts as I waited for responses to my resume.

I was hurt. I was angry. I was frustrated. I wanted my appearance to scream “I am not a cubicle drone! I am not an office automaton!”

In the words of our greatest president, mission accomplished.

On visits to retail establishments (especially upmarket ones in fancy neighborhoods), I was treated accordingly, no matter how innocent my intent. Since I didn't conform to the norm I was regarded as a threat.

Like all sentient organisms, human beings learn from experience. If a yellow snake with red stripes inflicts us with a painful and life-threatening bite, we will act very, very carefully the next time we encounter one, our motivation being to stay alive.

To that end, one of the men involved in the Philadelphia Starbuck's incident speaks of dressing in hoodies and Timberland boots, the better to prove he is an “authentic” African-American and not some media-manipulated Oreo.

To which I say great. Have at it. Dress like a thug—get treated like a thug.

It's just that simple.

But before you label me as a racist or accuse me of endorsing mindless conformity, read on.

In 2018 America there is a deep and collective sense of angst. We are a society undone by terrorism and random gun violence and the willful chaos of the Trump White House and the seething bipartisanship that underlays every facet of our lives. 

Then there is the looming spectre of climate change and a vague unease about the future and who it will include—and exclude.

None of us know what really happened at the Starbuck's in Philadelphia. We don't know what the manager's frame of reference was. We don't know how she felt. We don't know how the denied men looked at or spoke to her.

There is no complete audio or visual record of the incident.

But I doubt that manager called the police solely because the men were black. She called the police because she felt threatened. And being responsible for the safety of virtually every person in that store, acted in kind.

She is no more a racist than I was, or am.

In addition to being anxious, we are angry. And often seem to view everyone who isn't a clone as a potential enemy. Nurtured by reality TV and the anonymity of the Internet, we confront. As our TV listings confirm, every interaction is a potential 'War'.

So there are African-Americans who refuse to kowtow to any perceived influence or dictate of white America, it being in their minds a symbolic act of surrender. Of giving in. And their defiance has reached epic proportions.

Not that they don't have an abundance of reasons for doing so. Only someone without a soul would deny that African-Americans have been treated with something less than fairness by the citizenry and government of the United States of America.

But in 2018 America we throw accusations around like confetti. We rarely stop and ask is this truly legitimate? Is this going to dilute the pool of genuine grievances?

The shooting of Laquan McDonald by the Chicago Police Department is absolutely worthy of strident and nationwide protest.

Not being able to loiter at a Starbuck's because you're dressed like a thug? Not so much.

When every perceived slight is met with the same towering rage, I hear the rivets on the Titanic popping. I hear the cables on a suspension bridge snapping. I hear the carefully-constructed infrastructure of our civilization giving way.

In our blind, freely-distributed and frequently disproportionate anger I hear the Tower of Babel being built.