But lordy, sometimes in life one discovers how certain stereotypes came about.
Let me say up front that Democrats, especially the upper middle class, grad school grad Liberals, can be insufferable snots. Their prejudices are typically not of race, but of class. They consider those working behind registers to have something wrong with them. Many's the time I've wanted to smack some Starbucks-sucking, Martha's Vineyard sweatshirt-wearing, credit-card-tossing customer who wouldn't bring him or herself down to the level of actually acknowledging me as a human being. Some Democrats can be unapologectically arrogant and condescending. But they're rarely hostile.
That said...
Once the RNC official merchandise was put on display, our store began to hear more southern accents than usual. The people who came in and purchased said merchandise had certain... commonalities.Male Hair. There were men whose bright pink scalps shone through crew cuts that couldn't have been a fourth of an inch high. I've seen soldiers in fatigues with more hair. Every individual hair stood at attention, as if planted into the scalp by a nail gun. Maybe these guys use electro-shock therapy every morning to zap the hairs straight up. I hadn't seen that many haircuts that close to the skin since I wore a plaid jumper and saddle shoes.
Female Hair. AquaNet lives. Somewhere out there, in Texas, Indiana, Ohio, the Carolinas, Alabama, and Montana, in tiny salons with names like Curl Up N' Dye and Snippety Crickets, the art of Helmet Hair is being passed on. From the Mists of Time, the BeeHive stands fast. I saw hair that was as gravity defying as any anime character's. There was hair that swooped out from the ladies' heads and stayed out in mid air, defiant. A hurricane would have been rebuffed. This was hair with a clear plastic cover to keep it clean and fresh for comp'ny. All it needed was lace doilies. I fought the urge to say, Is it really hair? Can I touch it? because I knew any contact with it would mean my Doom. My fingertips would have adhered like it was a tar pit, and nothing short of kerosene would have freed my flesh from the lacquer's grip. I didn't imagine these females' males ever had the urge to stroke their wives' heads. I didn't imagine that the females ever wanted to be stroked. Their hair was ceremonial. Every sensuous atom in it had been vaporized.
Crosses. They were big. No; they were honking goddamn big. You could have crucified a hamster on these. These crosses did not say in a soft and modest voice, Hi. I'm Christian. How are you? These crosses bellowed CHRISTIAN COMING THROUGH, I'M A CHRISTAIN, YUP, THAT'S ME, A TRUE BLUE BIBLE-TOTING HALLELUJAH CHRISTIAN RIGHT HERE. These could have been used as weapons. If some terrorist had suddenly pulled out an AK-47 in the middle of the Northstar Concourse, in a second there would have been the whizzing sound of gold chains, and the terrorist would have thunked dead on the tile, impaled by two hundred three-inch-long crosses.
Flag designs. I'm not sure how this crowd would define flag desecration. It evidently doesn't include wearing the Stars and Bars as a cap, a polo shirt, dog-carrier, handbags, ties, or socks. If the Flag Code states that keeping the flag out on a flag pole all night is disrespectful, then I'd think making the flag into a pair of men's shorts would be downright sacrilegious. I began to wonder whether this group wore flag underwear and used flag condoms. "Lookit Marge! Old Glory's risin'! Salute!" Somewhere in the Twin Cities, there must have been at least one stripper in a flag thong.
Caucasian. I kept track. 99.9% of the people who purchased RNC merchandise were white. 99.9% of the people I saw wearing or carrying anything RNC-related were white. This didn't shock me. What did shock me was the African-American woman from Tennesse, my age, who came to my counter to buy two McCain-Palin pins and an RNC water bottle.
When a non-Republican purchased RNC merchandise, they always explained. "I have a friend who's Republican." "I collect political memoribilia. From all sides!" "I work for MSNBC, I'm just getting this because...well, because. History and all that!"
But this woman didn't explain. So I assumed she was indeed a Republican.
Sister, I wanted to say, what is going through your head? You're old enough to remember segregation. You're old enough to remember when you rarely ever saw a black face on a TV show. You have to remember when it was illegal for a white person and a black person to marry. What on earth do you think McCain is going to do for you that Obama --the first ever African-American presidential nominee-- can't?
I told my co-worker, an African-American woman from Mississippi near my age, about this Republican. She shook her head. I said, "Sure McCain and his ilk want her vote. But after they get it, the only way they'd let her in the White House is if she's carrying a vaccuum cleaner." "Umm hmm, you got that right," said my co-worker.
The Silent Treatment. There have been several times in my retail career when I've greeted a customer and the customer hasn't replied. Typically if I try again the customer will give me a curt nod, or scowl, or snap, "I'm just looking, okay?!" (To which I want to reply, "And I'm just selling, okay?!" Or "I'm terribly sorry. I hadn't meant to annoy the crap out of you by actually offering to be of assistance. I shall ignore you completely from now on.") But this doesn't happen on a daily basis. Sometimes an entire week will go by without a silent snub.
But the folks who went on to actually buy RNC merchandise (and who didn't explain that they weren't Republican), evidently considered direct acknowledgement of a salesperson to be against some code. "Hello. How are you?" I'd ask. The customer with the three-inch gold cross and flag tote bag would continue to look at some spot in the shop other than where I was.
As my public radio listeners know, I have a voice. Some of my friends call it The Voice. It is difficult to not hear The Voice. Even people who don't speak English respond to The Voice by smiling and nodding in a way that says, Hi, yup. I hear you. Can't understand a word you're saying, but dang, you certainly can project all the way to the back of the balcony, can't you? Even deaf people seem to feel a resonance, because they'll turn, see me smiling, and wave to indicate, I see you. Thanks, I'll throw something at you if I need help.
But the RNC purchasers (the non-apologetic ones) wouldn't even blink. I'd wait a while, help other customers, and then return to the flag-draped patriot and say, "Are you finding everything all right, sir/madam?"
The sir/madam would continue to stare at anything that couldn't produce a voice. They'd finger an RNC windbreaker, eye an RNC shotglass. I knew they'd heard me. Now, a simple nod would have shut me up. But to ignore me completely eggs me on. Because that's just plain rude. And to be rude to someone who's offering to help you, and being paid crap wages with no benefits while doing so, is really rude.
So a few times I got within five feet of the sir/madam who had decided I didn't exist, cranked up The Voice to Maximum Diaphragm, and asked, "Are you looking for something in particular?" and I'd look straight at them.
In all cases, the sir/madam grunted, "Jus' lookin'." To which I wanted to reply, "Oh, I see. Your mama taught you not to talk to strangers." Instead, I just smiled in a way that said, I knew you heard me all along, asshole, and said, "Let me know if you have any questions."
This was just the beginning.
NEXT TIME: Like Monkeys at a Flea Market
