Stitching these Wounds (Michael Jackson)

7. Lessons

[Michael]

•••

May 12th, 1976

I finished scanning the last of the customers' items for the day, grateful that the workday was finally coming to an end. Although I was barely making eye contact with any of the older, white customers who continued rolling by to get their items checked out, I'd earned a judgmental glare from each one of them. In my shy nature, I'd ignored them, unable to shake off the hurt that created itself inside of me.

None of the treatment I'd been receiving shocked me. Yet, the feeling of shame plunged deeply into my heart as if it was the first time. But, in my determination to get through the last, few moments of the day, I sighed deeply as I ran a hand over my face.

I gave a sigh of relief as my eyes darted to one of the last customers. After the long, dreadful day at school and having to go right back to work afterward, it almost brought butterflies to my stomach to be ringing up a few more people before returning home.

I prepared to scan the woman's items, getting the paper bags opened to begin bagging everything. I looked up to give her a friendly smile, but when her gaze lifted up from her purse, the look of disgust was evident in her expression.

She immediately grabbed her first item out of my hand harshly. "Excuse me!" she called out dramatically. "Excuse me, I need a manager!" Everyone's gazes shot towards our direction at the volume of her voice, and I couldn't help but feel embarrassed instantly.

Panic rose in me as I put my hands up in surrender, unsure of what to do next. When I saw my boss come out of the staff room, my heart started beating a mile a minute, and the fear of me losing the only job I was able to get was the only thing present on my mind.

"Is everything okay?" my boss questioned, walking the few, extra steps until she'd completely reached the customer.

"Yes, actually, there is," the woman snapped, tucking her ginger, red hair behind her ear before placing all of her items back in her cart. "I don't want this colored waste of space placing his hands anywhere near my things!"

Just when I thought my heart couldn't have sunk any deeper from hearing those words, it did just that.

My boss gave me a look that I couldn't even return before she looked back at the customer with the most sincere smile she could muster up. "I'm so sorry about this, ma'am," she apologized. "Here, come join this line. I can assure you that you'll find it much better over here." Oh, why? Because a white employee is working over there.

I stood completely still, taking in everyone's hurtful stares. Once I'd realized that I had my very last customer standing there, I snapped out of it, greeting the older woman with the best fake smile I could. My smile only became real once I'd saw that her skin color identically matched mine. I rarely ever saw anyone of my same race, and after what everyone around me just witnessed—including her—it felt nice to not feel alone for once.

"My eyes must be deceivin' me, or did I just see what I think I just saw?" the woman asked, lowering her glasses to the bridge of her nose as she continued putting her items in front of me. "That lady done treated ya' worse than some of the folks I've ever witnessed."

"Yeah, it happens a lot," I told her as I bagged up the last of her things. "I'm used to it."

The woman's mouth practically hung open. "Well, it shouldn't be like that," she continued on, starting to collect her bags before throwing them into her cart. "The civil rights movement didn't happen for nothing, ya' know." She paused, clearing her throat. "Don't let them continue to treat ya' like that, sugar. Ya' have the power to stand up for yourself, it wasn't always like that."