Sorry, can't wipe my race off my face

a racist made eye contact with me

personal stories, self-care, reflection, and healing refreshers for the soul.

My face. Because of my face an old white woman stared at me with vehement racism shooting out of her eyes. Before this, I didn’t know what real hate looked like.

I was in my usual shopping area a couple towns over. A place that’s 91.9% white, 0% Asian (surprise, it’s New Hampshire).

She works at the Kohl’s Amazon returns counter and my mom had four items to get through. She didn’t provide any customer service. It was painfully quiet. My mom (who’s white) looked down at her phone for QR codes as I stood behind her. I felt the woman’s eyes on me.

I first thought she was having a bad day cuz being stuck near the bathrooms seems like it sucks, so I averted eye contact despite her fixed glare. But a specific intensity hung in the air, and as seconds passed I understood I was her problem.

I looked up to match her icy stare. I swear I saw an entire lineage of racism behind her eyes.

Eye contact from a racist: you just know. It’s like being spit on. Their spit hangs between your eyebrows and you stand there and take it.

The mood grew more uncomfortable, her face more sinister. We played a game, looking back and forth just missing each other’s gazes, then she was suddenly interested in the ceiling.

My mom scrolled through her phone to her final return item. The woman wordlessly scanned it.

Empty boxes lined the wall, and I pleasantly asked if we could leave ours with her.

“Unfortunately, no we can’t take that,” she said in a voice that matched her face.

I wished her an excellent day (burn in hell, forever), and stormed off to the Sephora section to a buy an eyeliner.

At the front the cashier rang me up, and my mom asked her if she could take the box.

“She wouldn’t take it for you?” The cashier rolled her eyes in disbelief because they can “absolutely” accept boxes. She offered to take it out on her break and apologized for our less than stellar experience with her co-worker.

In the parking lot, I felt my face overheating in frustration and disgust. Mom and I were planning to go to the small Thai restaurant nearby.

“Can we go be with Asians now?” I asked.

On the ride my mom said Kohl’s hires the worst people. “I haven’t dealt with the racist part, of course, but there are other nasty bitches that work there.”

“At least I got a new eyeliner. For my Asian eyes,” I said.

This happened only moments after our trip to Wal-Mart, where a woman in front of me told the cashier she had to make sure something she bought “wasn’t made in China” (but it’s Wal-Mart?!). That lady was on some bullshit too, but she’s a comedy act by comparison.

I now know hate-filled, generationally racist eyes. Prior to this, of course I’d encountered lesser degrees of “the look”—this is America!

The look says: you’re lesser than, you don’t belong. It says, “Go back to your country,” when your country and the racist’s country is one and the same.

It knocks you down because hate received is hate received.

The privilege of whiteness means never knowing the look or its lingering after-effects. It’s like identity theft; you’ve been compromised.

When I went to bed images of the racist flashed in my mind like a scary movie, her beady eyes penetrating through my soul, making me almost believe I’m a piece of shit who should get out of her town.

Imagine living her existence, so closed off from the actual world and thinking it’s correct.

sanctuary (n.) - a place of refuge or safety

The Thai restaurant is small, located next to a printing business which makes giant Trump signs that decorate desecrate the highway route they’re located off of.

They were technically closed for their midday break, but since they know my mom they insisted we stay.

We sat in a booth adjacent to a few of the women on break.

I took in our new environment: newly done wood-imitation floors, flourishing floor plants, Buddhas, the maneki-neko (white, paw-up cat), and high contrast photos of Thai dishes plastered on the walls. The opposite from the outside world, a safe space. Sanctuary.

The owner placed waters on our table and teased my mom for not being in recently. Her sunny energy instantly helped lift our moods.

My mom mentioned to her that I’d had a bad day and told her she helped turn it around. “I’m happy when you’re happy!” she replied with her effusive smile gesturing to both of us.

Offering more compassion, he brought over oba leaves for me to try as wraps for my papaya salad (so good!). We each took pictures with her. Her husband came in, made jokes with us and asked me when I moved back to the area. My mom got his email so she could send them the photos. We were chuckling as we headed out.

They don’t go out of their way; they’re all kindness and naturally welcoming. It was the best salve for the afternoon.

When I got dropped off, I noted my landlords’ Trump sign posted under their American flag on their side of the porch and wondered what for.