Cabot O’Callaghan learned priceless lessons working at a grocery store.
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The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid
And the marshals and cops get the same
But the poor white man’s used in the hands of them all like a tool
He’s taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
’Bout the shape that he’s in
But it ain’t him to blame
He’s only a pawn in their game
Bob Dylan — Only A Pawn In Their Game
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I’ve spent 24 years doing something I hated. It was my job. In hindsight, it’s all I felt I deserved—a kind of subconscious masochistic punishment.
It was a disturbing revelation. I had to find some nugget, something redeemable about it. Otherwise, it was clearly a colossal waste of my precious time here on Earth. So, here’s what I loved. Here’s something earned. Something I can’t put a price on, something that gave purpose to an otherwise mind numbing and unrewarding “career.”
And I did find it.
This “nugget” has been valuable during our latest national racial upheaval. Whites are struggling with their concept of race and racism in the face of another brutal massacre, one that obviously targeted a single group. White denial is still rife, especially about the subtle but systemic aspects, but in the face of this senseless tragedy, the brave ones are willing to consider that they may be wrong about their assumptions.
May be. I don’t pretend to speak here to all whites, or anyone else. I don’t have anything but my experience as a questioning white male in a white male dominated culture.
The illusion that racism is under control has evaporated again. I mean, who can logically believe that less than fifty years of civil rights can right hundreds of years of racism and slavery in America?
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The illusion that racism is under control has evaporated again. I mean, who can logically believe that less than fifty years of civil rights can right hundreds of years of racism and slavery in America?
Shortly after I stopped trying to kill myself with myriad methods that included motorcycles and drugs, I landed a job at a local family owned grocery chain. It was a solid job for someone like me: no college education and absent sense of self. Good pay. Good benefits.
Working for a grocery store is unique in comparison to other retail businesses. Everyone has to eat.
When your job is selling food, you meet every facet of society and every shade of emotional development. People don’t have much of a choice in a world where food is kept under lock and key than to go to a store that sells food. We’ve divorced ourselves from growing our own food for the most part. It’s actually one of the tenets of civilization itself, the ultimate motivator to participate—work for food. The Industrial Revolution has only magnified this disconnection.
But that’s a deeper topic. I’m only scratching the surface of that to make the point that there’s no way of insulating yourself from the whole of human diversity while at a store that sells food in America:
The vain, the humble. The rich, the poor. Hardened criminals, addicts, hoarders. Pedophiles. Scam artists. The shockingly obese. Every ethnicity, race, color. The blind. Every religious faith. Every age. Atheists, celebrities. Fervent sports fans. Politicians, gang members. Prostitutes, cross dressers. Gays and the openly racist. Arrogant people, ignorant people. Firemen. Police. Anorexics, amputees. The deaf. People dying of cancer, parents caring for profoundly disabled children—the emotional burden heavy in their eyes. Burn victims. Angry people, the homeless. Alcoholics—the stealthy functional and the obvious whom shake violently from the DT’s. Every kind of mental disorder. Kind and loving people.
Name it. They eat.
My “nugget” was learning how to interact within this ocean of diversity. Sometimes it was difficult. Sometimes it warmed the heart, sometimes broke it.
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My “nugget” was learning how to interact within this ocean of diversity. Sometimes it was difficult. Sometimes it warmed the heart, sometimes broke it. Sometimes it was dangerous. With each new experience I improved how I related to each facet. Some of the lessons were like lumps to the head, my ignorance winning out. It’s often the price for wisdom.
The issue of race wasn’t something I had the luxury to avoid. Especially when it involved conflict.
Like the time I accused a young black girl of shoplifting based on nothing but what seemed like suspicious behavior. She didn’t steal anything.
Like the time a black family tried to pass an obviously altered stolen check to pay for a cart filled with baby formula, diapers, and liquor. When I denied the check they accused me of being a racist, hoping I’d cave or they’d distract me from calling the police by making a scene.
There are more stories. Many more. Sometimes I was in the right, sometimes wrong. During it all I was learning more about my issues concerning race than anything else.
But there is one instance that stands out in my mind above any other. I was watching a group of teenaged boys who were preparing to dash out the doors with bottles of liquor. I repeatedly walked through the produce department, keeping an eye on them.
A middle-aged black man whom I hadn’t even noticed suddenly stopped me and asked why I was watching him. “Do you think I’m stealing?” he asked roughly. My first reaction was one of defense, dismissing his accusation sharply. I immediately regretted my knee-jerk reaction and softened my tone. “No sir, I’m watching some kids who are about to run out of the store with alcohol. It has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry.” He eyed me doubtfully and his response was filled with frustration. “You don’t know what it’s like to be black.”
“You’re right. I have no idea,” I said without hesitation. There was a change in his eyes. It looked like a mix of surprise and relief.
I’m learning.
Photo—U.S. Army/Flickr