May 29, 2021
The pain in my hip makes it difficult to stand and walk. My threshold for pain is quite high. I’ve given birth three times, have undergone multiple surgeries, have fallen with injuries resulting on too many occasions to count. I live with chronic pain in my hip, back neck, shoulder and arm. Rarely do I use the pain relief medications prescribed for me. Instead, I power through with THC elixirs, mindfulness, and simple tolerance. I am a black woman and have learned that my pain is not taken seriously by others and me.
Today, I am going to the market. It’s been more than a week that I’ve been thinking about going. There is no fresh food in my house. I want to choose my own produce. I decide on a market that specializes in organically grown produce and has a wide selection. It is located in an affluent white neighborhood on the outskirt of the city center. There are a number of people of color there – working; my cousin used to be a manager.
This market is small, one of the reasons I chose it. My nose and mouth are double-masked. I am hobbling. The pain is bad. The cart helps me balance and gives me support. Typically, I have little interaction with the strangers, white ones in particular, that I encounter because any contact leads me to the reality I see in their eyes. They don’t see me as a human being like them. My humanity is not where they start to digest my being. They don’t see me as a woman with purpose and family and trauma. First and foremost they see my Blackness – a label put upon me by their kin long ago so they could justify not seeing my actuality. Some of them mean well and call themselves allies, others find my existence utterly offensive or for their purposes only and call themselves other things. Regardless, they each expect that I will make room for them before I take it for myself. I just want some groceries.
The cashier ally at the checkout is friendly and accommodating. She wishes me well and I am on my way with three bags. Rolling the cart to my car is not easy; there’s a downward slope and I struggle to maintain my footing and control over the carriage. Push a button to open the hatch, load the bags into the car. Returning the cart to the store entrance is not an option too much pain, too much struggle. A dark-skinned man walks by too quickly for me to get his attention. Another man of color gets out of a car and walks in my direction.
“Sir?” I ask and he stops.
“Yes,” he invites. He has no mask and does not come close. He sees me.
“Would you mind taking this cart for me? I am disabled.”
“Of course,” he says.
“Thank you so much,” I reply and gently move the cart in his direction.
“No problem,” and off he goes with the cart.
Perfect.