In today’s world, the form of racism that I have felt the most – as if white people (and other non-black people) have resigned to it as a kinder and politer way of letting me know that they undervalue my worth due to the colour of my skin is covert racism. A silent twist of the knife – pressed sharply against the surface of one’s dark skin, subtle and disguised yet still discriminatory in its nature.
I live in Oshawa – a small city known for housing a stronger white community than most of the smaller suburban area just outside of Scarborough. As someone who enjoys photography, I often frequent the Henrys Camera store in Oshawa to browse and sometimes buy my gear. Three of the lenses I own were purchased there along with my $3,500 worth camera. I mention this and the prices of these gears throughout just to preface that I felt like a regular patroon. A costumer one would recognize to have made expensive purchases from the store. Items so costly that a non-enthusiast would care to buy.
I was in the store one day, looking for a camera bag – ironically enough – a week after purchasing a lens that cost $2,999. I was on my own, browsing intently – looking for the perfect bag to house my gear. I was soon approached by a Karen – a white woman who needs to assert her privilege and judgement. She feigned a polite smile that most customer service representatives would.
“Will you be needing any assistance today?” she had asked.
“No ma’am, I have a pretty good idea of what I’m looking for, thanks for asking.” I was as polite as a black man could be and even stretched out a gracious smile, thinking that would be the end of our interaction. I turned my back to her and resumed my search for the perfect bag.
Suddenly, I could not help but feel the sense that I was being surveyed. Eyed. My movements were carefully being tracked as though I was already being proclaimed to be guilty of something or it was suspected that I would end up doing something. I glanced over my shoulders and realized that my intuition was correct. For there she was, trailing behind.
She had followed me from where our conversation had ended to the middle of the store. I looked back at her, took my earphone out of my ear, and asked, “Is there anything else?”. I must have taken her by surprise, she quickly jumped and exclaimed “No, no, just making sure you are taking care of – in case you might need any additional help!”
But I already told you that I am okay! I felt like urging on, but as a black man, in front of white people, I had long learned that I must be on my absolute best behaviour. I settled to offer her a smile and responded with “It’s okay, I like this bag over there. I have shopped here before so it’s okay. I know my way around.” I deliberately added that last part to be diplomatic and non-confrontational in letting her know that it is cool. I am not going to rob this store.
“Oh, I understand, I’m just here to help.” she persisted, and I could feel my inner core boiling. I deduced very quickly that I was being racially profiled and that she must have thought that I would try to steal some gear.
“It’s fine ma’am, I got this.” I forced another big smile. A big black smile with flashing white teeth.
I walked till the other side of the shop; she was still trailing me. I then walked to another area of the shop where it had tall lighting equipment. Once again, she was on my tail. I must point out that there were other patroons inside the store. I remember a white heterosexual couple in the store, wandering and browsing, but never approached by anyone nor greeted by those working on cash.
I remember a white man and his toddler – the older gent’s face was almost pressed to the protective glass barricading people from grabbing onto products on display, unless asked for permission. That man was looking for some mics – yet, no service rep was by his side assisting him.
But me. The only visible minority inside the store, the black man, needed to be asked for assistance, needed to be followed around in the store, needed to be checked on and policed. I was devastated to be reduced to a thieve. To have been judged so easily based on the colour of my skin. To have been made to feel like dirt. Devalued. Like someone who could not afford to be in this camera store, buying a bag and therefore would most likely have to steal. If I did not have the inner strength, I probably would have lashed out on her right there and then.
But I needed to keep my composure. I had to be an angry black man in silence. So, I grabbed the PeakDesign bag that I had come into the store for. I walked to the cashier and she followed me still. She rang me up and told me the price.
I was visibly upset and stern by this point and I’m sure she picked on the vibe because this time she was avoiding direct eye contact “See, I knew what I wanted to buy, I wasn’t going to rob the store.” Her response was silence and her face turned red. There were no smiles or acts of customer service. Her silence was the validation I needed that I was wrongfully profiled and racially discriminated against.
She was there from the beginning of my arrival and until the end, seeing me through the store.
No other white person in that store was offered the same kind of forced courtesy and customer service.
No other white person in that store was judged to be a potential thief.
No other white person in that store was made a victim of covert racism.
But this black man that had entered the store, looking for a bag,
A $299.99 bag that he could afford from his own pocket.
That man – was judged.
-- Yoni M (IG YoniM2K).