The day started innocuously enough. Busy but mundane, small victories (new washer! a surprisingly decent tax return!) peppered the afternoon and I was in good spirits. Picked the kids up from school and headed to the grocery store. My 6 year old was especially excited since he did really well that day and I told him he could pick out some cookies from the fresh bakery. Shortly after our arrival, cookies in cart, we headed towards the deli. I plucked my ticket and hoped against hope that I didn’t get the ONE employee who rubbed me the wrong way. The last time I had him help me, while I was friendly and polite, he rolled his eyes and acted as though my very presence was draining his will to live.

Holding my number between my fingertips, my chances looked good. Only the gaggle of kind and laughing Polish ladies seemed to be working and I relaxed.

Until he emerged from the back. All women were elbows deep in assorted meats and cheeses for various customers.

Being serviced: #24
My ticket: #25

So he called my number. But it had been a good day thus far and I wasn’t going to let that bring it down. I just shrugged my shoulders, “Eh, luck of the draw.” and decided to roll with it. Until he decided to try and make conversation with my son.

“What’s up four eyes?”

And I just froze. My son, who wears glasses, didn’t hear him. And I – I!!! – was not sure how to react. I lost my voice. My brain fumbled and I could only stand dumbly as he repeatedly tried to get my son’s attention and then followed with, “What’s the matter, you don’t speak English?”

Then, with utter lack of assertion, I spoke. “He speaks English. He’s just shy.” He jabbered on while preparing my order but all I could think of was how this asshole just insulted my child. And I said Nothing. He passed me my package of sliced ham and asked if I needed anything else. I did. I needed many other things but I was so upset, I shook my head no and with a tense grimace of a grin on my face, walked away towards the checkout.

I didn’t want confrontation. I didn’t want to make a scene. No. Nice women don’t do that. Your kids are here. Is this the example you want to set?

I was so warm. I could feel the sweat gathering around my brow, dampening the creases of my shirt folded into my armpits. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t think straight. I almost left but ultimately forced myself to make a complaint.

I spoke to one of the assistant managers. As I described him, she held up her hand and said, “Let me call the manager.” Apparently, this was not a new thing for the people he worked with. He had quite the reputation for being an inappropriate shithead. However, I was the first customer to say something about it.

Manager arrived, I again gave the details of what had occurred. And he apologized. Told me he’d give the worker a strong warning. He could see I was upset, No, don’t get upset, Don’t take it personal, He’s not that bright….

And I let him talk me down. Because I didn’t want to start bawling in front of a grocery store full of people. Because I knew I was letting him talk me down and I didn’t want the trouble and I hated myself for all of it.

Yesterday, I was upset.
Today I am angry.

I think of that deli worker and I am PISSED.

I am pissed that after years of stripping away the behaviors I was taught to use to handle awkward and uncomfortable situations, all that work was for nothing as I froze and fell into the waxed face armor of a polite smile and managed strained but weak laughter as he continued prattling on.

I am pissed that after a lifelong struggle of finding my voice, learning how to not only stand up for others but for also myself, finally realizing that decades of letting offensive jokes slide because “you don’t want to be THAT person” and not putting up with it anymore, I lost all confidence in myself to Speak Up and Say Something. Especially, for my own child, even if he didn’t hear any of what was being said.

I think of that manager and I am FURIOUS.

I am furious at his demeanor. I am furious that he didn’t march over there and tell his employee that you Don’t Say SHIT LIKE THAT to a CHILD. I am furious that he treated my visibly distressed emotional state in the typical fashion which all men have dealt with “those hysterical, frantic and fragile females.” A condescending “There There”, the eyes betraying the boredom of having to deign to bother with such petty trivialties.

But I am most incredibly furious with myself for Letting Him. For allowing someone to tamp down my rightful indignation. For NOT keeping quiet. For NOT making a scene. For NOT setting the example to my kids that yes, Women have a Voice and They Should Speak The Fuck Up. I am not only enraged but so disappointed in myself. While I have strived to be the kind of mom who would always have the backs of her children, quadruply so because it was something sorely missing from my own mother (she was and still is the exact opposite of that), I failed. I failed miserably. And I am having a very hard time with this, right now. I would easily give my life for any of my children, but I couldn’t call out an asshole. I couldn’t raise the biggest stink.

I am also lost in childhood revelrie.

I am reminded of every time my great-grandmother and I were out, how she’d be ignored when she was asking for help. After some time, she would then act like she didn’t need it anymore and we’d leave to go somewhere else. I am ankle deep in memories of my grandmother getting the wrong food, item, etc. and then laughing it off, saying “Oh it’s fine. I don’t want to make a scene.” And she’d just deal with whatever it was. Nope. No complaints.

How stoic.
How affable.

I am not those things.
And I do not want to be those things.
Ever again.