The world makes no sense to me anymore. How people act now bears no relation to how people were when I was growing up. It was a kinder, more respectful time. Courtesy could be found in most encounters with people.
Today, courtesy is just a fond remembrance of the old days.
I was in a store standing in line when two southern men joined the queue behind me.
The men were dressed for a day of rough work wearing heavy pants, orange safety shirts and hats stained with dirt. Their shirts had name patches on them. One read Billy Jo while the other had Llamar stitched on it.
They had ropey skin tanned like leather, teeth that had never met a dentist, and spoke in a drawl, heavy on the vowels that one hears in the south.
They began to grouse about the wait and finally settled on it being the cashier’s fault.
Now this cashier is a black woman who often rings me up and she’s a really lovely lady. We always chat about our lives for a moment or two while she checks me out. (I only mention her race because it is relevant to this story. )
The men referred to her with the N word which is absolutely intolerable to me, and they began to play a guessing game about her name her name throwing out stereotypes like “Shaniqua” and “Lafawnda.”
My self preservation usually dictates I don’t engage with fools when I’m out in the world; you can’t win battles with stupid people, but I simply couldn’t listen to their ugly words any longer.
I turned and gave them a raised eyebrow look, and they instantly affected belligerent attitudes.
The following conversation went like this:
“What’s your problem lady?”
“My problem is listening to you spew your bigotry in such a public place.”
“Maybe you should mind your own business then.”
“Mister, minding my own business is something I’m a pro at but it’s pretty hard when you’re standing behind me talking the way you are without even bothering to whisper.
The cashier’s name isn’t Lafawnda or Shaniqua. Her name is Angela. She’s has 2 kids, both of whom are in college. One goes to Texas A & M on a math scholarship. The other goes to the University of Texas. Their names are Brian and Collin.
She’s a deacon in her church and she volunteers at an old folks home in her time off.”
“I don’t care,” was the reply.
The last person in front of me moved forward and as we all moved up, my answer was “Nor should you but neither should you be vomiting your racism on other people out in public who have zero interest in hearing it. Do you not see the irony of two, white men named Llamar and Billy Jo making fun of a black woman saying her name is Shaniqua?”
“Well what is your name,” Llamar asks.
“My name? My name is Fuck You, Llamar.”
With that, I went to Angela’s counter. Paid. Gave them my most condescending “Y’all have a nice day.” Then left.
I don’t think it changed anything in the world but I felt better.
Snark and Hot Pants 