Let's talk about Christmas shopping, shall we?
I know my face doesn't announce money. You can tell I've had no work done (See prior blog post), the hallmark of wealth apparently. I'm sure I've benefited from lookism at some time or another, but I don't notice those times. I just notice the times when some one looks at me, assesses my monetary status and then ignores me, pecuniary lookism. In ye old '94 Oldsmobile, I experience a lot of income-profiling. Pulled over 'cuz my blinker seemed a little weak. In largely white communities, white privilege doesn't exist. Income is the thing. Imbeciles turn to money to judge a person, because judging must be done, right? How else can you tell the right people from the wrong people?
I've been told the income of my youth and my current bank statement are written all over my face for those fluent in that language. We poor folks have an openness, an innocence, a void where presumptuous superiority should go. And somehow these shop keepers can see that.
|Another job in sales: 3yrs at Seattle Farmers Markets. I'm now gluten-intolerant|
My revenge is that these high-heeled prissy pants are a pain in the ass to help. Inevitably, they have no idea what they are looking for and whatever is offered isn't quite it. It really tickles me to see them give the staff such a hard time... because they can.
And that's what befuddles me. We're talking STAFF. Not owners. Not investors. We're talking non-commission employees who are snooty to people who are a lot like them. It doesn't make any sense, to violate your own good sense of equality, your own "class," for the sake of the shop owner, who enjoys fine cognac in her hot tub thanks to the sales you make. You say to the world, these people and me too, our class is not worthy. Anyway, I can't imagine sales can improve over cherry picking customers, worshiping some and making others feels like shit.
|At "Van Cleef and Arpels" Cozumel. I am the white girl.|
After she left, a melee broke out with the first sales girl claiming I'd stolen her customer and all her Mexican comrades lining up behind her in solidarity -- just like a greedy American to STEAL a rich customer. And in my favorite Spanish tirade of all time (mixed in with some Mayan cussing I'd learned from my roommates), I let fly. Excuse me! But who here heard her say "Quien es la Ultima?" when that lady was still in the store? Everyone heard. But still...I'd stolen the highest paying customer they'd had all season. Buoyed by the bracelet-buyers compliments, I went on: just because I'm white and I don't speak Spanish as well as the rest of you, you think I don't know the rules. You think I can't understand the rules. You think I can't understand what you're saying. You think you can change the rules because I'm a foreigner, I'm just a stupid greedy white girl. But that's racist. Are you going to have one set of rules for Mexican employees and another for Americans? Everyone heard her say "Quien es la Ultima." And I found this lady wandering around without anyone even watching her... Their mouths were agape. The tide turned. Everyone was mad at the other girl for being so stupid... and slightly racist herself both against me, the white girl, and the Mexican woman.... everyone knows Mexicans don't have any money, right.
|A later Mexico trip: camping/hitchhiking Baja with Huck and Blue|
Also, I need to update you on my picky-eater's latest issue. I get crap for Coyote's choosiness, like it's my fault. He's choosy, for guy with NO access to white bread or American cheese. He eats most fruit, many non-green vegetables and a good assortment of whole grains and cheeses and beans... as long as it's all separate. Blue picks salads for her Birthday dinners. She loves cooked greens. And eats her crusts first. Thank god we had a second, very different kid, or we'd think that was all our doing. Coyote's just picky and that's all. He's got hallmarks of a super-taster, as do I. He once told me that (lets see how I can say this without making it sound like that's all we give him....) he could taste sugar in some potato chips and so he wouldn't eat them. Incredulous, I read the ingredients and he was right. So at his class holiday party, they were to make Reindeer sandwiches and eat them. Believe me, I asked a lot of questions and I'm still not clear on how a sandwich turns into a reindeer. At any rate, it involved something called Easy Cheese, like cheese wizz, but newer. And Coyote asked: if he made the sandwich, would he HAVE to use Easy Cheese? For some incomprehensible reason the answer was yes. And would he have to EAT said sandwich? Yes again. Coyote then decided that instead of participating in the party at all and being forced to eat Easy Cheese, he would rather read in the corner by himself. And so he did. That, my dear readers, is the right kind of picky eater. That boy can tell the good from the bad. He is a boy of good judgement.