Immigration at Walmart: I was both humbled and angry
The woman hung back, but I thought it was just because she was on her phone. It seemed there 75 different kinds to choose from as we stood there, moving now and then to avoid other shopping cards. After awhile, I realized I was hogging the view.
I stepped back. She stepped forward. That's when I realized she'd been waiting for me to move. She hadn't said anything, hadn't tried to claim her space, or be active in what she was searching for.
Only when the other women left, and I was still there, did she attempt to speak to me.
She just had a picture on her phone of the brand and type of tampon she was searching for.
She was pointing to her phone and pointing to the tampons on the shelf. "Estas?" she asked me.
The Humanity of it Humbled Me
She wasn't confident. Tall, beautiful, lithe -- but scared to pieces. You could see her shaking. She was working up the nerve to ask another woman if she had the right tampons.
Flashbacks of being a teenager, having to ask a strange woman for a pad or for advice in the very same isle, knowledge that right this very second in India, some girls can't attend class each month because they don't have pads or tampons, the wondering if this woman was illegal or not, how I felt both bothered, angry, sad, and humbled at the sheer humanity of it --- hit me all at once.
She was almost right. I helped her find the right box. She said "Thank," and quickly left.
I let out a giant sigh for a giant shopping trip. Forget the:
* inordinate amount of cameras in the store that made me feel like a criminal the moment I walked through the doors,
* an over abundance of people,
* the fact that I'd already been there way too long for my own personal comfort, and
* knowing that I will forever refuse to use the self-checkout machines to avoid being falsely accused of shoplifting while doing so.
I truly hate having to shop at Walmart.
I Still hadn't Paid for My Groceries and He Wouldn't Move
Later, at check out, I was helping to put my bagged groceries into my cart, stepping to the left of the platform where the pin pad is. I continued the small talk with the cashier.
Behind me were two shorter, older men of a different ethnicity, well dressed. While I was at the counter, they stood behind me in line. When I had turned back from loading my groceries into the cart, one of them had moved right in front of the keypad.
Not the point where I still didn't have enough room, there just wasn't enough "comfortable" room. I still hadn't paid for my groceries. I nodded at the man, smiled and said, "Excuse me."
He didn't move. He said nothing.
In fact, I received the universal look for, "Scum, arrogant bitch. Respect me."
Having been previously married to a man of the same ethnicity who felt the same way, I knew the look well.
I stepped in front of him regardless to insert my card into the keypad and shield my actions at the keypad with my body. His friend, attempted to get him to move back a tad, speaking to him in Spanish. He still didn't move.
I never touched him and he never touched me. I had just barely enough room to stand in front of the keypad and pay for the groceries.
I renewed a slick coat of "class" to cover my rising anger, smiling at the cashier, purposely ignoring the man behind me, and leaving quickly.
I was pissed. What bothered me was his sense of entitlement. He just expected that I would bow to his expectations. Clearly, I wasn't done yet paying for groceries and he was nearly preventing me from properly doing so -- on purpose!
As I climbed the steps to the upper level parking lot, I had to wonder, how many of the explosion of new ethnic people that keep appearing, were here through proper channels -- who want to be here, to learn, to have a better life, to become, support, and defend America.
At the same time, I wondered how many just want to come here to sponge off America, being resentful they have to put up with Americans or white people in general, all while demanding the Americans that were born and raised here (or otherwise obtained their citizenship legally) bow to their expectations, needs, and well -- demands.
Two Pictures of Reality
The first one reminded me of actual, LEGAL immigrants who come here and genuinely try. They know they don't have all the answers. They know they have some disadvantages, but they are willing to do the work, to learn, to accomplish, and to make their dream a reality.
It's the same vision we were taught when we learned about the Statue of Liberty in history class, and in historical pictures we see of people "fresh off the boat." In that sense, we're rooting for them.
The second one reminded me of the majority of people I see today, "immigrants" as the media will call them, regardless if they are actually "illegal aliens" or not. Many of them feel entitled, and literally expect we provide for them financially, medically, and other wise. Many of them feel like we're the ones that are behind or second class citizens because we don't respond to them in their native tongue in the grocery store.
Really?
Really.
As an American who was born and raised here, I don't want to see America fall simply because government officials (and every last one of their sub-departments or subsidiaries) are literally allowing the influx, all while bowing to and providing for every last one of their needs.
Make No Mistake
I fully support PROPER, LEGAL, immigration. I will support and help the woman in the tampon isle who is genuinely trying.
I do not support ILLEGAL, LOOPHOLE-EXPLOITING, UNVERIFIED CLAIMS, and FALSE IDENTITY -- methods to gaining access to this country. And if you don't speak English, refuse to learn, refuse to work, refuse to try, and yet you expect that I bow to your expectations and meet you're needs, just because --- you have another thing coming.
On the contrary, I expect you to work hard and try, because that is what many Americans do every single day. Many of us don't get free hand outs you might be getting. So excuse me if I don't really give a s--t about your disapproving looks or your expectations.
Perhaps I'm a minority. Perhaps my voice is only the equivalent of someone with slow, but increasing case, of laryngitis in a noisy room fully of shiny objects and pleasure.
I don't know.
What I do know is that my everyday world is changing and part of me fears what will happen when the majority reaches its breaking point -- one way or another.