Tag: this happened to me

audio, blog, Pat Aitcheson writes

A Black Woman Goes Shopping

pataitcheson22
shopping bags_rawpixel
rawpixel via pixabay (edited)

listen: 

The automatic doors spring open for me, the only welcome on this chilly grey morning. Hot air blows briefly through my hair and I blink in the harsh lights of low-end retail, piled high, never mind the quality. Price is king. I’m not here for anything fancy. I have a specific task in mind.

Get in, get it done, get out clean.

Taking off my gloves, I flex my fingers and let the warmth seep into my fingertips. Cold hands lack feeling, and I need to discern every change in texture, weight and balance point as I seek my target. I’m not sure where to find it. Time to roam the ground floor.

I think he’s seen me.

I wander, apparently aimless but in fact with a definite route in mind. Back to bathroom goods, along the rear wall to soft furnishings, over towards the tills and retrace my steps. I pause next to lighting.

He’s still there.

No need to panic. I belong here, just walk like I belong here. I do belong here, I do. But he’s following me, upstairs to kitchenware, past textiles. I hide in the furthest corner, flipping through pictures. Maybe when I turn — no, I see him slipping between the shelves.

When I approach the till and the tired operator asks me if I found everything today, I nod and smile and hand over my debit card. No worries about the trifling amount for a laundry hamper. I dreamed of this day, when prices wouldn’t worry me. A nightmare dogs my steps all the same, even though I’m in the black.

Or because of it.

The security guard watches me exit the store today, just like every other day I visit, keeping a close eye on people like me. I want to shove the receipt in his face and scream.

He didn’t see me.

The automatic doors spring open for me, a cold machine welcome. I’m in another store, a giant halogen-bright temple to consumerism. I have a specific target in mind.

Get in, get it done, get out clean.

These salespeople are bright, smart, and cheerful. They want to help, and commission is a great motivator. I am faced with many options to replace my ageing bed. I look around, but it seems everyone is busy, helping someone else, earning commission somewhere else.

They haven’t seen me.

No need to worry yet. I definitely belong here; my bank balance says so. I do belong here, I do. Black Friday deals everywhere, now if I could only get some assistance with all these different sizes, fabric colours and delivery dates. It’s a high-end store with beautiful room sets and lots of empty space. Price matters, but quality matters more.

I’m not here for anything cheap.

I linger by a truly regal bed, its headboard glamorous buttoned purple velvet. Maybe in another colour, it could be the one. Thirty percent off in the sale ends tomorrow. This is the cue. I’ve stopped walking, I’m ready to be sold something.

Ready, willing, able.

I pick up a brochure on my way out. No one asks me if I found what I wanted today.

In the black. Invisible.

 

originally published by Those People on Medium September 11 2018

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes

Coming to America

pataitcheson22

when security makes you feel insecure

airport_Skitterphoto
Skitterphoto via pixabay

I’m travelling to the US, for the first time in over a decade. And travelling there alone, for the first time in much longer. The America we see now from news and tweets is a confusing and worrying place. While I know rationally that things will be fine, that the friends and family I will see are good people, that most people are good people, I cannot help but feel a prickle of anxiety. I also know that bad things happen even when you follow the rules.

Enhanced security at airports is annoying but routine now. We know the drill; liquids, laptop, shoes, belts. Everything is organised and moves efficiently. It’s hard to remember when it was any different.

I travelled back from the US with my family a few months after the 9/11 attacks. Security was a ramped up, disorganised mess of extra screening for suitcases and lines that were hours long. We arrived in good time but still had to be pulled from the line because our flight to London was about to close. Two hours standing with increasingly fractious young children, and increasingly anxious passengers all around. Uncertainty hung thick in the air like smoke. Fear settled in the pit of my stomach and took root there. But we got home safe.

The next year, we took a short internal flight from San Diego to LA, for a connecting flight. The timing was tight. My husband, travelling on an Irish passport, was singled out for a random check. The first time, it was a surprise. I went through security with my children without a hitch.

He was asked to step to the side, remove his belt and shoes, go through the scanner again. He was frisked. His carry-on was searched thoroughly. When I lingered I was told brusquely to get on the plane, ma’am. Time was ticking away, the little plane was waiting. I got on and held my children close. I assured them that Daddy would be right there, and the plane would wait for him, and it would be fine. My voice shook and I smiled a lie to soothe my anxious daughter. I willed them to release him and I didn’t know if they would, or what I would do if they closed the doors.

For the first time, I was afraid.

He made it with minutes to spare. We were both shaken, but we got used to it when it happened again, and again. Repetition does that. The thing we fear loses its sting with repeated exposure, until it’s mere annoyance and then finally, we become indifferent.

This time, security checks go smoothly. I empty the water bottle in my carry-on. I have my ESTA. I expect biometrics and customs forms. I have my destination address memorised. I exhale and try not to sweat despite the heat and the fact it’s three a.m. London time and I’ve been awake twenty hours straight and I’m a bit low on blood sugar and I have done nothing wrong.

Rationally, I know everything is fine. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m suspect, not really welcome anymore.