be mine
It's easy to learn which cashiers to avoid when you're a regular at certain stores. I may not know their names, but I remember their actions. The lady with long brunette wavy hair that pulls your pushcart to the end of another, transferring item by item into the next cart. No other cashiers do this. Her doing this takes extra time when she could just bag it, and I can place it into my own cart just like all the other customers do. The old lady that moves so slowly that the length of time it takes for her to help you is equivalent to my hair growing a half inch in 8 weeks. There's the waif woman that engages in conversation and analyzes your purchases.
When I went this morning I couldn't help but fall into one of those lanes whose cashier I try to avoid. There weren't but two other registers open. The shortest queue had a woman paying that was nearly finished. This register belonged to the small though not starved cuban man. I had been to him before. From time to time, he makes a comment here and there. I always rather he'd just tell me the price straight out.
I was buying a Valentine's Day window cling of a pink heart reading, Be Mine. "Fifty three cents", he said. And he looked at the heart as I jiggled coins inside my change purse. Then he held up the heart three inches from my face, implying that I should look at it. Without direct eye contact at what he wanted me to look at, I looked up for less than a second and then looked down again hunting for the right amount. There was the odd feeling of my space being invaded, something shoved in my face and being forced to do what he was wanting me to do without him saying a word. I didn't acknowledge him since he just stood there saying nothing and holding out his arm. My heart lub dubbed extra beats from this sudden growing annoyance.
"Say this in your language", he commanded while while still holding the heart in my face.
"Be mine.", I read.
"No. How do you say this in your language?"
"I only speak English... So English is my language."
"Oh". He sounded disappointed and not sure of what to say next.
People should watch what they say and how they say it when asking someone of a different race certain things. There is a right way and wrong way on how questions should be presented. Not everyone is going to act the same. I had mentioned to my sister that not everyone was going to act as kindly, after she had told me about going to the Library and the librarian said my sister had reminded her of a comedy sketch on Fox tv. Then she proceeded to reenact the skit and imitated a very bad Chinese accent. There was no resemblence except for the skin color. Lady, we aren't Chinese ; all asians aren't the same eggroll. Get your ricecakes straight.
Like one time a long while ago, a girl pointed out my father had arrived. There were other asians in our class. Why did she assume he was my father? He wasn't.
And another time a lady approached me in the parking lot to ask what kind of lipstick girls like me now a days wore. She had said it was a dark colour and that it looked good on our skin. At best, I could offer her the brand of my colorless chapstick.
Or the time I went to the restroom and a woman straightaway asked, "Where are you from?" She didn't ask it with a smile or friendliness but confrontation, making me think for a second whether or not if I answered "a" or "b" I'd still be giving the wrong answer to her question. After I told her I was born in Texas, she said, "no really....where are you from"? Again I repeated my answer and added, "I've only ever lived in the States".
Assumptions are a bad thing. Questions when asked the wrong way come across just as badly. Black people aren't all athletes. White people can dance. And yellow people aren't either all Chinese or all Japanese. Most of the time even we can't tell each other apart.
On my insides and in my mind, I could be that token angry Filipino woman. If I tried hard, maybe. I could've asked Cuban man how long it's been since he got off the boat. I could've asked him to get fiery and rant. But he should do it all in his language. It's cute and funny when someone's angry and yelling in Spanish. You know like how Ricky was on I love Lucy. Next time I'll get the window cling that reads, Kiss Me. I believe in any language that translates into Kiss my Ass.
