A few weeks ago our nine year old goddaughter came for a visit and was tickled pink about getting her picture taken inside of a grocery store called Food Lion. It made her day!
Big Strong Man and I met in Virginia and it was there that I first saw a Food Lion- I remember thinking it was a fun name for a grocery store as well.
Last Friday I went to our local Food Lion. It is the grocery store closest to our home which was a little upsetting when we were diligent Couponers because Food Lion does not double. Ever.
It was the latter half of the day and our household was winding down. The best time to head out for special trips is close to closing hours -where I don't have to contend with long lines of shoppers in a race to the cashier. Especially when I am making a special trip....
A friend of mine from high school worked with the local fair in our hometown one summer after graduation. As I walked down one of the many (many, many, MANY) hills in our hometown, one near to the Giant with the hot green roof, I saw him and, like old friends, we were excited to see one another again. As I got closer, I noticed one big change since senior year: a tattoo on his forearm.
In beautiful script, some two inches high and six inches long, complete with exaggerated curves, he had "pride" on his forearm.
So, I am no dummy, but I remember telling him how cool it was and then walking away wondering why he would have pride tattooed on him and, really, what it meant (to him).
The night I went to Food Lion was like many trips I had taken before. Full cart, one, two, or three kiddos in tow (just one for this night), milk to quench a militia's thirst. As Thatcher and I completed our "order" (do you call them orders where you live?) we made the descend to the front of the store and immediately I turned our cart right. Right to the customer service desk.
Pride? Ok, here goes: in January of this year, with baby Thatcher's approaching arrival, our minivan undrivable, and our finances far from speed, I bundled up my little ones and we made an appointment at our local W.I.C. center. This is a center for Women, Infants, and Children to go and receive assistance with groceries. Because I had called and spoke with an employee there, I knew we qualified for the assistance and in one final gulp of pride, we drove to the office, some 25 minutes away, in a van we were borrowing.
The building is ugly. Institutional.
Being there felt like failure. It was humbling and (forgive me) humiliating. How did we, the couple who were all about FINANCIAL INDEPENDENCE and NO BODY SHOULD GET A FREE RIDE, and, STOP SUCKING OFF THE GOVERNMENT AND HARD WORKING PEOPLE, end up in a position to take from the government? A position in which we were asking, receiving, and still -if only in our minds- grumbling as we went.
It was because I felt like I was better than that. As if that is a thing and not a fellow person.
Once at the customer service desk, a gentleman purchasing good money worth of lottery tickets in front of me, I tried to make eye contact with the sales woman. With all her might, she kept her eyes far from mine.
My eyes, which begged to say I am sorry. I am embarrassed. Please tell me that this is ok. That I am ok. That I am a good mom, even if I need assistance. Please tell me that you will graciously execute this order the same as you are doing this cash-paying man in front of me. Please don't pity me and don't make me feel less than I already do by saying "here comes a WIC" to the sales lady next to you like I am that horrific thing. Please know that I am sorry. I am sorry that this is an inconvenience. I am sorry that this will take longer and I will have probably brought the wrong can of pinto beans up to the counter and this will further make this awkward. Please be patient with me a I sort out the items in my cart and pray that my little guy doesn't need my full attention as I check the sizes and brands once again. Please do your job and try to be gracious about it, without passing judgement and rolling your eyes. Please don't bite your lip when you see me take the food voucher out of my wallet- the one that cost a lot of money from when I, once upon a time, had money to waste. Please pay me the same respect you would any other customer, even if I have multiple vouchers at once because I would rather make this trip of belittling once a month and not five separate times. And when I try to make a joke at my own expense because I feel shamed, you can laugh, even if you don't think I am funny. Even if I am your second, or fifth, or 37th WIC order today. Even if you and your momma never had to ask for help. Even if you can afford everything in my cart no problem. You can laugh and remind me that it is ok and that "sometimes we just need a little help", which is always appreciated over dead silence and blank stares.
On this particular trip, the sales lady was all and none of these. I tried not to cry there. Not to cry in the van on the way home. I tried, but then, in the safety of my warm house and loving husband, I could hold it in no longer. I cried the tears of shame and pride.
It is not because I think I am better-that is not my heart.
When I read Blue Like Jazz, there was a chapter in which I underlined an entire paragraph because I could relate to the feelings both Don, the author, and the woman he was writing about were feeling. The paragraph reads:
“Somehow I had come to believe that because a person is in need, they are candidates for
sympathy, not just charity. It was not that I wanted to buy her groceries, the government
was already doing that. I wanted to buy her dignity. And yet, by judging her, I was the one
taking her dignity away.”
Yeah, that's how I felt. Embarrassed. Without dignity. A candidate for sympathy.
So that friend with the tattoo? Yeah, I still do not know why he chose it. I suppose I can ask him, but I don't. Maybe I like the mystery of it all. Maybe it just is what it is. I am prideful and I hate it. I would not shame another for needing help, but I shame myself. Like a contradiction.
I imagine we all struggle with pride at one time or another.
Regardless, he writes truth on his forearm. -
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