Don’t Talk to Her, She’s Black
by J.B. JEMISON
When I was fifteen I knew I needed to get a job. I wanted to make my own money and buy things my parents weren’t willing to pay for, mainly books or journals to write in. So, in the spirit of this, I walked down to Hyvee to get a job and there, because of my overall optimism and appearance of genuine happiness (and the fact that the job had “A Smile in Every Aisle” as their slogan), I was hired on the spot.
I loved the job as a sacker, despite its location. I grew up in Missouri, on a block that was ghetto-adjacent, as we called it. One with middle class houses with their high shrubs and middle class cars. On any given day people are walking up and down, kicking up leaves as they do their shady business between the downtrodden and gentrified blocks of the south side. In Kansas City, Missouri you might find it’s a smorgasbord of races, cultures, and relationships. However, just a hop - skip- and a jump across the state border (about ten minutes from my house) is Kansas. That’s the street where you’ll find Hyvee.
Just across the way, you might find yourself being called nigger, being followed closely - and openly - around a store, or being spat on. You’ll be referred to as “that black girl” and watch your grocery line dwindle when the only white girl clocks in.
I knew this about Kansas City, Kansas, when I got hired at Hyvee, however, I thought the grocery store was close enough to home to still be considered a safe space. It wasn’t. I can’t chronicle how many times I’d been racially attacked with verbal insults while working there but I can tell you of the first time I really knew that it didn’t matter where you were, and how young and innocent you looked, the racists will find you. That first day started more exciting than any other but by the end I was defeated, reduced to tears, and confused.
***
It was my 16th birthday and I was officially, and legally, allowed to become a cashier, instead of a stocker or sacker, and I was excited. I was filled with happiness because I could stay at the front and when it was time for me to go home I could sign out without having to finish a checklist first. Such are the worries of a teen.
I had waited so long for this and I’d demanded they put me on the schedule “Day One”. I waited behind my register, having completed all training weeks before, ecstatically tapping my fingers against the screen. A woman came up, five or six items in her cart, with a little boy about three years old sitting in the basket. The boy bounced, with his hands on the handle, as they stopped before my register and I punched in my code, smiling in return.
“It’s my birthday,” the boy told me proudly, puffing up his tiny chest. I grinned and leaned over the counter. Meeting his eye and giving a quick wink.
“It’s my birthday, too,” I whisper to him like it’s our little secret. He squirmed until he could get his legs under him and stood in the cart, putting his hands against the back of the register and leaned toward me conspiratorially.
“Are you old?” I laugh hard and carefree, in the way only a teen can, and shake my head. I ring up the items and smile down at him, then tell him my age. His mother is standing there smiling softly.
As I punched at the buttons to finish the transaction a man came up behind her. I looked up with a ready smile until I saw the seething anger on his face. Eyebrows drawn together, white lips tight with cheeks turning red. As if she could sense his presence, the woman took a step to the side, away from me. She seemed to shrink in on herself, her shoulders coming up, almost touching her ears. I looked between the two but neither spoke to me. I leaned forward stretching to grab at the item he had purposefully put as far from me as possible - as I was at the Express register, I didn’t have a rotating belt to help move products toward me.
“Don't talk to her,” he spat out between tight lips, “she’s black.”
I straightened so quickly my elbow hit the side of the register. My mouth snapped shut and blinked hard to keep the tears that immediately filled my eyes from falling. I looked at the man questioningly, at his hard eyes and his snarling lips. He stared back at me, daring, just daring me to say something.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was frozen in place. I watched as he used the tip of his finger to push the item, a pack of gum, closer to me. Then he looked down at the boy in the cart, who mirrored his mother. His tiny body shriveled to a far corner, around the bags I’d swung over the counter, legs pulled up, small eyes averted, his own lip quivering.
I looked at the woman but she didn’t look at me. She stared down at her feet, having stepped out of the way, again, so he could pay with a card, her hands clasped together over her belly in submission. I wanted to speak, wanted to deny my blackness. I wanted to tell him I was ok, that I was a "good person" who liked books and music, but I couldn’t. I was afraid of what he might do. Would I lose my job? Would he claim I insulted him?
So I was silent and I swiped the gum and put it back on the counter, away from me. So that he could grab it with the least proximity possible.
I looked at the boy again who peeked up at me from beneath long lowered lashes, his arms still crossed at the elbows, his hands grasping at his shoulders for comfort. He looked just as confused as I, sad, terrified by tone, but I knew he truly didn’t understand. Then my chest tightened. I hurt for this little boy who would grow up with a racist father, a mother with no backbone or no voice to speak, I supposed, and fostered hate in his heart nurtured by the man meant to teach him about the world.
I felt sorry for him but, to be honest, I felt more sorry for myself.
by J.B. JEMISON
When I was fifteen I knew I needed to get a job. I wanted to make my own money and buy things my parents weren’t willing to pay for, mainly books or journals to write in. So, in the spirit of this, I walked down to Hyvee to get a job and there, because of my overall optimism and appearance of genuine happiness (and the fact that the job had “A Smile in Every Aisle” as their slogan), I was hired on the spot.
I loved the job as a sacker, despite its location. I grew up in Missouri, on a block that was ghetto-adjacent, as we called it. One with middle class houses with their high shrubs and middle class cars. On any given day people are walking up and down, kicking up leaves as they do their shady business between the downtrodden and gentrified blocks of the south side. In Kansas City, Missouri you might find it’s a smorgasbord of races, cultures, and relationships. However, just a hop - skip- and a jump across the state border (about ten minutes from my house) is Kansas. That’s the street where you’ll find Hyvee.
Just across the way, you might find yourself being called nigger, being followed closely - and openly - around a store, or being spat on. You’ll be referred to as “that black girl” and watch your grocery line dwindle when the only white girl clocks in.
I knew this about Kansas City, Kansas, when I got hired at Hyvee, however, I thought the grocery store was close enough to home to still be considered a safe space. It wasn’t. I can’t chronicle how many times I’d been racially attacked with verbal insults while working there but I can tell you of the first time I really knew that it didn’t matter where you were, and how young and innocent you looked, the racists will find you. That first day started more exciting than any other but by the end I was defeated, reduced to tears, and confused.
***
It was my 16th birthday and I was officially, and legally, allowed to become a cashier, instead of a stocker or sacker, and I was excited. I was filled with happiness because I could stay at the front and when it was time for me to go home I could sign out without having to finish a checklist first. Such are the worries of a teen.
I had waited so long for this and I’d demanded they put me on the schedule “Day One”. I waited behind my register, having completed all training weeks before, ecstatically tapping my fingers against the screen. A woman came up, five or six items in her cart, with a little boy about three years old sitting in the basket. The boy bounced, with his hands on the handle, as they stopped before my register and I punched in my code, smiling in return.
“It’s my birthday,” the boy told me proudly, puffing up his tiny chest. I grinned and leaned over the counter. Meeting his eye and giving a quick wink.
“It’s my birthday, too,” I whisper to him like it’s our little secret. He squirmed until he could get his legs under him and stood in the cart, putting his hands against the back of the register and leaned toward me conspiratorially.
“Are you old?” I laugh hard and carefree, in the way only a teen can, and shake my head. I ring up the items and smile down at him, then tell him my age. His mother is standing there smiling softly.
As I punched at the buttons to finish the transaction a man came up behind her. I looked up with a ready smile until I saw the seething anger on his face. Eyebrows drawn together, white lips tight with cheeks turning red. As if she could sense his presence, the woman took a step to the side, away from me. She seemed to shrink in on herself, her shoulders coming up, almost touching her ears. I looked between the two but neither spoke to me. I leaned forward stretching to grab at the item he had purposefully put as far from me as possible - as I was at the Express register, I didn’t have a rotating belt to help move products toward me.
“Don't talk to her,” he spat out between tight lips, “she’s black.”
I straightened so quickly my elbow hit the side of the register. My mouth snapped shut and blinked hard to keep the tears that immediately filled my eyes from falling. I looked at the man questioningly, at his hard eyes and his snarling lips. He stared back at me, daring, just daring me to say something.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was frozen in place. I watched as he used the tip of his finger to push the item, a pack of gum, closer to me. Then he looked down at the boy in the cart, who mirrored his mother. His tiny body shriveled to a far corner, around the bags I’d swung over the counter, legs pulled up, small eyes averted, his own lip quivering.
I looked at the woman but she didn’t look at me. She stared down at her feet, having stepped out of the way, again, so he could pay with a card, her hands clasped together over her belly in submission. I wanted to speak, wanted to deny my blackness. I wanted to tell him I was ok, that I was a "good person" who liked books and music, but I couldn’t. I was afraid of what he might do. Would I lose my job? Would he claim I insulted him?
So I was silent and I swiped the gum and put it back on the counter, away from me. So that he could grab it with the least proximity possible.
I looked at the boy again who peeked up at me from beneath long lowered lashes, his arms still crossed at the elbows, his hands grasping at his shoulders for comfort. He looked just as confused as I, sad, terrified by tone, but I knew he truly didn’t understand. Then my chest tightened. I hurt for this little boy who would grow up with a racist father, a mother with no backbone or no voice to speak, I supposed, and fostered hate in his heart nurtured by the man meant to teach him about the world.
I felt sorry for him but, to be honest, I felt more sorry for myself.
J.B. Jemison is a young writer, mom, and student, writing fiction and creative nonfiction genres. She lives in Florida with her small family and shelves of unread books.