Why I Quit My Part-Time Job

**Note: This post's writing was spread out between December 1st, 2015 and December 31st, 2015. I had many thoughts that I wanted to suss out, but I also wanted to wait until I was in a position where posting this would be the least likely to hurt any of my prospects. I'm posting this now as a reference point for a series of stories that I'm currently writing about answered prayer. Enjoy.**

On December 1st, 2015, I made a decision  that I had to stick to. I suppose one could also call it taking a risk. I was originally very grateful to get this job. I felt like less of a loser, having graduated and being able to tell people I had something going on, even if it wasn't the something magnificent. But it was never supposed to last forever.

I find that I'm  having a hard time shedding my former skin as a student, and I still approach many things with a student's mentality. So when September rolled around and summer ended, but I was still at the store doing the same thing I'd been doing since June, I got itchy. I'm so used to autumn ushering in a new phase of life, that I felt, surely something's supposed to be different  right about now. But everything was the same. By that time I was starting to feel the familiar onset of restlessness that creeps up on me when I'm bored, as I do get bored easily. But I didn't  have any alternatives, and I didn't  have a "real" reason to quit, so I decided to stick with it.

Lo and behold, that restlessness grew and morphed. Not only was I bored, but I was sad. And tired. Weary and anxious, even. The longer shifts and unrelenting monotony together were one thing. But having to smile in ungrateful faces, to be affronted with rudeness and negative energy and assumptions of entitlement, to pretend to care about why you're here, what you're  buying, why you're  buying it, and how much you think you know about blahblahblah. It got to a point where I spent my days either dreading going to the store, or counting down the hours until I could go back home when I was there.  Every day I went in, I felt more and more unlike myself.  Like a robot. An empty robot whose energy and internal grip got whittled away after each shift, no matter how many positive vibes or good intentions she'd originally entered the building with.

The people I worked with were always phenomenal. Kind, helpful, knowledgeable, talkative, understanding, efficient, high-achieving, proud of their work. And though the work often felt restraining to me in its repetitiveness─educative, yet limited in its capacity to fulfill─it was by no means bad work. And I was absolutely excellent at my job; I will give myself that. But customers. Oh customers. They are the beings who confirmed for me over and over that retail is not my ministry. In November I told myself I'd wait it out til January 1st, 2016; use my last hurrah to experience what antics the holiday season would bring and earn as much as I could. But then I returned to work after Thanksgiving and I just. couldn't. do. it. anymore.

And so, without anything coming up next or anything to fall back on, I put in my notice on December 1st. I noted my last day as December 15th. They scheduled me on the 15th and the 17th. Thus, December 17th, 2015 was my last day working at the bookstore. This, my first job, had its perks and its good, better than good, and sometimes even great moments. I learned and gained so much! I regret nothing! But it was time to move on. By quitting, I gave myself permission to unburden myself. And so while it might've been an unwise decision, and now I have even less of an idea of what I'm doing, I put myself first and made the best decision for me. And I feel good about it. Better than good. Even great. I can withstand being a broke fool for a while. At least now I have a little more time to breathe and strengthen my resolve.

"Thank you and have a great day!" June 1st, 2015-December 17th, 2015. R.I.P.

Good Last Day.

My last day at the bookstore. 

Mid-Michigan Therapy Dogs group was there to wrap gifts for customers, and they brought dogs with them that they let me pet multiple times. Mitch Albom was also there signing Magic Strings (collective employee sentiment in regard to his presence and persona: meh, which was news to me). And one of the employees set out free brownies, candy canes, Danish cookies, and a Christmas card in the break room for the rest of us.

Bought my last three purchases with an employee discount (Go Tell It On the Mountain, The Handmaid's Tale, and Lianne La Havas's 'Blood' for a friend) before leaving. Came home to find out that after a year and a half of dragging her feet to apply for it, Ma's passport finally came in the mail. Now she can go almost anywhere, and we can go more places together.

So it was a pretty nice day. I'm free. The "What Now?" bubble is looming still, but I put in my time, I made a decision, and now I'm free.

TALK TO YOUR KIDS!

Why are some parents so afraid to talk to their children? 

While I was helping at the registers today, a woman came up to return a book she'd bought an hour prior. "It's for my daughter. She's in 6th grade. The first story has someone getting drunk in it. And the next story has someone getting high. And that's just too much. I have to be careful."

You know what that book was? The Best American Short Stories 2015, edited by T.C. Boyle. This is quality literature here! You mean to tell me that you'd rather deprive your daughter of experiencing the written treasures collected in this year's volume of one of the oldest and most venerable literary anthologies (100 years and counting)... because you don't want her to know about people getting drunk or high?

Granted, ideally she knows her child and what the girl could handle, and doesn't  overestimate what's too much for her. But this lady talked like any mention of any drug or alcohol was an automatic disqualifier; as if these substances are top secrets-that-shall-not-be-named except amongst the adult-iest of adults. Why shelter your child from life, when you could just as well say, "Look Suzie. I'm  going to let you read this book, but understand something first. It has some themes in it that are a little mature, so if you have any questions, I want you to talk to me about them. Also, there are certain actions going on in it that I don't want you to emulate. These are real things that people do, but I don't condone them, and here's why.... Just don't go thinking that something is acceptable or cool just because you read about it in this book. Okay? Understood? Okay. Happy reading. And again, talk to me if there's  anything you don't understand."

This is a conversation that may be difficult, but is by no means impossible. Ma had this conversation with me many a time, and they worked. Like this customer's  daughter, I was also a bookworm of a young'n who read beyond her grade level, but my mom didn't hinder me just because she was scared or wanted to avoid discomfort. She read/flipped through it, she explained her conditions to me, I agreed to follow them, and then she let me read!

People, talk to your kids about difficult and confusing stuff! Your children are not made of glass; I can bet you they're not that fragile. Please talk to your kids instead of coddling them forever.

Casual Kids

It always gets a little unnerving when they assign me to the kids' department for a long stretch of hours because well, first of all, onslaught of other people's kids. But it's doubly unnerving because kids of a certain persuasion will get casual with their parents of the same persuasian, who just let them do it and don't reprimand them for what I see as blatant disrespect. I witness exchanges such as these and can't  help but wince and shudder, imagining all the whoopin's that Ma would've given me if I'd dared to talk to her the same way when I was their age.

Parent: Avery!
Avery: What. (or What? or What!)

(Ma in my head: "'What'? Excuse you?  You don't say 'what' to me when I call you! You say 'Yes ma'am'! Have you lost your mind?" *whapwhap*)

Parent: Quinn, come over here please.
Quinn: But I'm over here right now.

(Ma in my head: "I didn't ask you where you were, I said come here! I don't know who you think you are or what you think this is, but you bettnot eva..." *whapwhapwhap*)

Pssh. I wish I would. Not in Ma's house. The "What" thing is what really makes me nervous, because it happens so often between these kids and their parents, and this was an offense that Ma especially did not appreciate from me. Do/did any of you all's parents get on you about responding with "What" when they call you? Like on a good day I could say "Huh?/Hmm?", "Come again?", "What was that?" and sometimes even "Say what now?", with the necessary tone adjustments. But if I ever try to respond with just "What", then I'm in trouble. And don't ever tell Ma to wait, oh no no! You might as well just throw your life away at that point.

Seeing what their parents put up with (and in public, no less!), I'm hard-pressed to think of much that these kids of a certain persuasion would get scolded or punished for. At least not when it comes to how they address adults/their parents. I'm just glad that it's me within earshot and not Ma. Whereas my personality and my time in retail have taught me to shake my head at people in silence, Ma's tolerance for foolishness is non-existent, and she'd be liable to let fly no matter whose kid it was, paycheck or no paycheck.

That's not my name!

That moment when someone attempts to modify or erase you by tacking on a nickname that you didn't authorize, and you correct them on it, and they just brush it off with "Ok well anyway..." as if your name and what you prefer to be called are inconsequential.

Customer (over the phone): Now, what's  your name?

Me: Danielle.

Customer: Danielle? 

Me: Yes, Danielle.

Customer: Ok. I'll go ahead and just call you Danny for short--

Me: Danielle is fine. Now what was it you were looking for?

I put up with "sweetheart" and "hon/honey" and "dear" *shuddershuddershudder* because, you know, men are everywhere (in my experience men are generally the main utterers of these outdated patronizing pats-on-the-head in verbal form), this is retail, I'm trying to be nice to people, pick your battles. But my name is mine. MINE. How are you gonna get casual with a complete stranger enough to ask them their name, and confirm that you heard their name correctly, only to give them a nickname of your own choosing just because it's convenient for you? Without even asking if it's ok with them? Or acknowledging your misstep when they correct you?

Nah. Danielle is fine.

Positive Energy.

Today I received the most beautiful compliment from the same customer who noticed me reading in the store a couple of weeks ago.

"You know, you're a really nice person. I notice these things because I work with special needs kids, and I study a lot about how positive energy can affect people. I see you around this store, and you're kind of mellow but you're always smiling. And that positive energy just comes out of you, and you know, other people can feel that." 

Thank you, sir!

Nice to see you reading :)

"It's nice to see you reading. Usually you're,  you know,  working."

I came into work early to buy a used book that I'd been eyeing last night, and as I paused to flip through some new releases a regular customer passed by and said this to me. This is probably the sweetest thing a customer has ever said to me, and I don't even know why I appreciated it so much. Thanks for noticing.

Dee Dee's Feathers + Dishonor on your cow! (continued)

You're not sorry. You want done what you want done, without looking bad or having me develop a lower opinion of you. Even your apology is all about you. You've been coming into this store multiple times a week and spending hours at a time for almost as long as I've been working here. I'm sure there's been a myriad of things going on around you and music played while here that could've annoyed or disrupted you enough to complain. But I guess Dee Dee's Feathers of all things was just the most egregious and penultimate aural obstacle to your reading experience. Okay, whatever.

When you finally walked away, my face was aching from being frozen in fakeness for so long, and my throat was burning with all the words upon words that had been eager to leap out to correct your wrongness and declare dishonor upon your cow. Instead, they were relegated to piling over each other and stuffing themselves into an increasingly dense, strained, and repeated "Okay." Like I said earlier, Miss, enduring this unnecessary conversation took a lot of effort on my part! I said I'd change it, dang! What else do you want from me!

Listen, your musical preferences aren't my business; I shall neither judge nor be persuaded. But please, Miss, if you're going to approach someone with that much audacity over something that frankly sounds like a personal issue to me, please. Please. Just let the conversation be over when it's over! So you haven't let the brilliance of jazz and expert vocal stylings into your heart. Fine. But don't try to talk my ear off disparaging an art while you try to justify yourself.

Whenever I'm assigned to be in the music/DVD department I intentionally play the Black-est and most soulful music at my disposal out of the selection that record companies pay this franchise to play in its stores. I do this because, hello, gotta represent for the magic my people create and/or have originated. But I also play such music because most folks who frequent this store in this rich white area haven't yet been exposed enough to appreciate (or simply refuse to appreciate) said magic. But let this be the first and last time you or anyone else asks me to switch to something else, Miss. 'Cause today was the first and last time that I'll oblige. 

Dee Dee's Feathers + Dishonor on your cow!

Miss.

I'll have you know that it took me a great amount of woo-sah for me to fix my face and keep #84 of my many plastered situational smiles together when it so behooved you to walk all the way from wherever you were in the store, down to this here music/DVD department to ask me to stop playing the CD that was currently in rotation. Apparently Dee Dee Bridgewater's new album was interrupting your precious reading. I had things I wanted to say and looks I wanted to give you in return, but I held them in and said in spite of myself, "Okay. I can change it." (Now, it's possible that my eyes may have been glaring at you while my mouth was smiling. I don't always have complete control of my facial expressions, especially when I'm agitated. And sleep deprived. BUT my point is, you presented a "problem", and as the bigger person/a proper agreeable salesperson, I told you I'd fix it.)

"Okay", I'd said. You could've walked away then, hurried along back to your sacred and direly compromised reading, leaving me in peace so my face could thaw while I begrudgingly switched to the next CD in the queue. What you did not have to do, however, is exactly what you ended up doing.

What you did not have to do was 1) continue standing there and proceed to explain to me how, in which way, and in what state or quality of being the album disrupted your concentration. You did not have to 2) include how you had to keep painstakingly starting over from the same spot in your book, as if being distracted while reading is a criminally cruel grievance that no one else has ever endured before. You did not have to 3) lower your voice to conspiratorially gripe that, "I hate to say this [No you don't], but big band is for old people", as if I would agree with you. Especially since I don't (respectfully reminded you that plenty of young people like jazz); there was no one else in the department to hear your slight, much less care; and the styles of jazz graciously offered to us on Dee Dee's Feathers aren't even (consistently) big band! You did not have to 4) meticulously describe how listening to this album makes you feel like you're outside with birds mercilessly squawking overhead. You did not have to 5) ask me, "I mean, do you actually like this stuff?" when you yourself started your complaint with the assertion that another salesperson had told you yesterday that we control the music played in the store. Of course I like this "stuff"! There's no one else standing behind this counter; who do you think played it?! You did not then have to 6) suggest I play something else, preferably not something everyone knows because then you'd just haaave to sing along, and then you'd just be distracted from reading all over again. Does this look like a DJ booth that takes requests to you?

And you most certainly did not have to 7) keep profusely apologizing and saying you didn't mean to be a b*tch throughout your extended complaint. Because if you're so sorry, why are you still in my face right now? Why are you still forcing this conversation along when I clearly said "Okay" three minutes ago, if you're so embarrassingly sorry for inconveniencing me? If you indeed feel sooo bad about not being able to appreciate an art form that you don't understand, then why aren't you asking me questions to learn more about it instead of asking me to turn it off?

[Not done yet. Still a bit on my mind that shall be expressed. Proceed to the second part HERE.]

Cringeworthy Customer/White People Trying Too Hard

Since I'm on this writing about work tip at the moment, I've decided to share an awkward moment that I posted about on Facebook three weeks ago. Prepare to cringe. And if you happen to be of the well-meaning vanilla variety,  use this as an opportunity to reflect and reform. Sometimes y'all try to do too much and think speaking your notion of Blackinese will make us feel more comfortable, when a simple "See you later, enjoy the rest of your day" or "Please and thank you" would suffice:

In today's episode of "White People Trying Too Hard"

Customer (nice-enough young white guy): Could you help me find a book by David Hair?

Me: Sure. David...?

Customer: Yeah. David as in, well, David. And Hair as in "Gurl yo' hair looks good." *nervous chuckle*

Me: *keeps eyes averted, typing away, pretending I hadn't heard that*

Y'all. My vanilla brothers and sisters. I don't know who's been giving you misinformation, but I promise you, PROMISE you that you don't have to try so hard. Maybe you mean well, but it only makes things awkward for the both of us. If you just talk to us like regular people, we will understand.

No chill.

This morning I walked into work and found this empty gaming card box sitting behind the customer service desk. Someone on this store's payroll has absolutely no chill! Seriously, who did this?!

But then again, why do I love this so much? Like, this is the most accurate statement I've seen made during the whole three months and some change that I've been working at this store. Retail can be fun and build character, but it's no joke y'all! Every establishment needs an embodiment of employees' suppressed frustration like this, even if only for solidarity and a stress-relieving laugh.

"Before we all perish." -_-

In today's episode of white supremacy/conservative paranoia/TakeAmericaBack BS at the bookstore:

Just before the end of my shift at customer service this afternoon, I was called over to the cash registers to wrap two books for a customer. An up-in-age suburban white lady. One of these books was Plunder and Deceit, yet another publication by an educated bozo, the value of which this up-in-age  suburban white lady made a point of impressing upon me while I wrapped her purchases. She's got grandkids in college, and is buying this book for all of them because apparently this book has the key to solving all our problems, and without it young people won't be able to save all 320 million of us from imminent doom due to government overreach:

 "This is the generation that's gotta turn things around. Before we all perish."

....Excuse you?

Hmm.

 

Explain to me, up-in-age suburban white lady, how your life is in danger when you have:

1. The resources to drive or be driven to one of the largest bookstore franchises in one of the whitest, richest areas of the whitest, richest county in Michigan.

2. The money to pay for hardcover and leatherbound books at full or even slightly discounted price.

3. The time to not only wait to have said books wrapped, but also to spout off your non-knowledge to a complete stranger and try to lecture her about the art of wrapping gifts because apparently she wasn't doing it right.

 (Well dang! If you know so much, why didn't you just ask for someone to cut the paper for you so you could do it ya durn self instead of slowing me down with your unnecessary input? I stopped what I was doing and left my post to help you. I am doing you a favor. I am not a child. I am no one's dummy. And I'm certainly not one of your lil pampered, sheltered, entitled, bootstraps myth-brainwashed grandkids. Fall. back.)

Access, money, free time! Oh the horror! Oh the peril!

You're worried about the government getting too much into your business? When there are people out here who can't even read, much less afford to buy a brand new book like you're doing right now? When there are people out here being abused/killed everyday just because of what they look like?

What you refuse to acknowledge is that you are the government. YOU! Most of the people in it look like, are in the same age range as, have a similar socioeconomic background as, and think just. like. you. The government, this entire nation, is working for people like you. YOU! And you call yourself saving the world with your dramatics? 

Eff outta here with that BS. "Thank you and have a great day!" -_-

Favorite Song of the Year (so far!)

Ugh, this song. YAAAS, this song! This song is a godsend!

When I'm unnerved from dealing with rude customers at work. When I want to get my mind right. When I just need to get my bones movin', blood flowin', and butt jigglin'. This song is there. It's just full of so much self-love, finesse, and bold dignity. It makes me want to look all my problems and all those rude people in the face, yell "BYE, FOOL!" and hit a smooth shmoney dance before waving them off like the stench from yesterday's trash and strutting away. The beat is one thing, but the lyrics! The lyrics are sophistiratchet gold! Oh, let me count the ways:

I'm a classic man
You can be me when you look this clean/

I got charm like a leprechaun, mummaf***a
Now y'all f***in' with the wrong mummaf***a/

I'm the- I'm the man, who are you, mu'f***a?
Shine bright like a jewel, mu'f***a
Even under fire I'm cool, mu'f***a/

The ladies on my elbow ain't for the show 
Every madame on my team is a top general, oh/

How can you not believe that you're the brightest, most beautiful, most capable, most resilient being to ever walk the earth after listening to this song? I sing and hum "Classic Man" to myself to keep me sane.

Jidenna, our resident classic man. Many thanks and blessings to you, sir! Walkin' round dressing and carrying yourself like somebody's smoothly distinguished uncle or grandpappy. Go 'head on!

A Customer Apologizing?! What is this?!

This afternoon, for the first time in all of my two months and one week of working at the bookstore, a customer came to me and apologized for their own rudeness.

I was alone as "head cashier" for a couple hours today, and early during my post a considerable line kept forming, receding, and forming again. At one point when the line was particularly long, a woman set her purchases down in front of me and mentioned that she also wanted a certain e-reader device. I tried to explained to her as kindly as I could that we had a digital section for that (just a few paces away), and if she didn't mind she could have the customer service people get the digital person for her so he could give her exactly what she was looking for. But after realizing that she'd have to get back in line afterward, and incensed that I wouldn't just magically produce the e-reader from my pockets ("You can't just hand it to me?"), she made it clear that she definitely minded. She snatched her purchases back and stomped off with intentionally pointed silence, a grimace, and what appeared to be a faint eye-roll.

Eh well. Another rude one. That's unfortunate. Next! That's all I thought about it in the moment that passed between the lady grumping away and the next costumer stepping up for their turn.

Some minutes later, after the line had dissipated and the digital guy had rung up the lady for the device she'd wanted, she came back up to my register to speak to me even though I was already busy helping another woman. Oh. no. What could she want now, round two? To rub my unhelpfullness in my face? Jesus be nerves of steel, an internal hug, and a box of tissues for the ride home! I know I chose to work in retail, but I can only take so much in one day! I was prepared to get chewed out. But then the lady, now in a reconciliatory tone, said something that shocked me and almost made me cry. And I paraphrase:

"Excuse me. I just wanted to apologize for my attitude earlier. I am so sorry. I was really jerky and it was so uncalled for. You didn't deserve that. You are wonderful and appreciated, and I just wanted you to know that. Thank you so much."

And as annoyed as I'd been at her rudeness, I couldn't even fault her for it anymore. Whatever that lady had been going through today, she got over herself and took the time to come back, recognize her wrong out loud, and apologize to me. In front of other customers! So I told her that I appreciated and accepted her apology, and encouraged her to have a great day (as I tell all my customers). All the while simultaneously on the verge of tears and wondering if the sky was about to fall, because things like this never happen in the store.

Y'all, I'm telling you. Humility is so becoming, and it can truly work wonders. Try it sometime and always remember to be kind! :)

Things People Give Me #21 and #22

Haven't done one of these in a while, and coincidentally both of the items are work related.

Yesterday I rang up a customer who bought a small journal to add to his collection because he uses them to "jot things down at work all the time". I heard that and didn't think anything about it, until he continued to tell me that he's a chef, he used to work for The Food Network, and he's trying to spread love for bacon and cooking around with his new book, Bacon Man!. He even made a point to show off his faded bacon wallet, which I hadn't noticed at first. Then he handed me this card promoting his book before thanking me and leaving. Now, I'm not much of a bacon enthusiast, and since I don't have the Kindle app I probably won't be checking out this book as I'd promised. But that's no reason for y'all not to, if y'all are interested! It's cheap ($1 ebook), and contains 20 recipes−ranging from breakfast to dessert−all of which include bacon! I'm sharing this because I liked the clear photo of bacon sizzling used for the card, and because I appreciated this customer's pleasant attitude and tenacity. Thanks Jay, and good luck to you!

The next one is pretty self-explanatory, just read the note below. Every week someone on the bookstore staff is recognized by a co-worker for demonstrating any of the seven core values listed at the bottom of this nomination form. And I guess this week was my turn! Thanks, Steve! And thanks to the lady I helped last week who called! It's not too often that we get people calling just to say good things, so you are very much appreciated!

The Best Compliment from a Customer!

Today I answered a call from two sistas seeking to order a particular book series through our store. Well, actually one woman was on the phone with me while confirming things with the other and telling her to jot things down, but you catch my drift. At first there was some confusion, as not all the titles they had in mind matched the ones that came up when I searched our system. (Turns out that the author wrote two successive series whose titles are identical save for a one-word difference.) Once we'd figured that out, I thought we'd be good. But then, after I answered their subsequent questions about shipping time, shipping fees, membership benefits, and being able to order books from us without stepping foot in the store, the women decided wisely against ordering anything for now.

Sista: You know what? I think I better go and check which ones we've read and which ones we might've given away to people. That way we can be sure which ones we need to order, and then I'll call you again.

Danielle: Ok, that's fine.

Sista: Now, what's your name again?

Me: Danielle.

Sista: Danielle, ok─[to her friend in the background] Write that down! Her name's Danielle. We'll call and ask for her later.

Me [checking the time to see that I should've clocked out five minutes ago]: Well, you know, I actually won't be here for much longer today. But whoever answers the phone when you call back should be able to help you, no problem.

Sista [sounding disappointed]: Oh... But you're so good! We want to talk to you!

Me [laughing to keep from crying at how nice this lady is being]: Aww, thank you! I really appreciate that!

Sista: Yeah, you've been extremely helpful. So you will be in later, right? Just not today?

Me: Right.

Sista: Well that's okay, because I probably won't be able to call again today anyhow. So I'll just call some other time this week and maybe we'll catch you.

Me: Alright then. Y'all have a great day!

Sista: You too. And thank you! Bye.

She's Not "Oriental."

No ma'am, no. No.

If you insist on continuing to use the archaic, otherizing, and racially derogatory term "oriental" (which you really shouldn't anyway, because 1) It's 2015, and 2) Why?), it applies to products and inanimate objects, not people. Not. People!

Rugs can be oriental. The market that people often visit to buy goods produced in Asian countries can be called oriental. What is not "Oriental" is the grown woman, who happens to be one of the managers of the store, who also happens to be Asian, who is taking time out of her busy schedule looking for a single book for you, while your impatient behind has got all the other customer service people (myself included) on the same wild goose chase by asking them to find that same book because the manager (who would know where things are better than anyone else) apparently isn't moving fast enough for you. She already has it covered. And she, ma'am, is not "Oriental."

"Would you happen to know where this book is? The Oriental woman said she knew."

That word rolled off your tongue so slick, I almost thought you were trying to be funny. You have no idea how hard I was trying not to roll my eyes, screw my face up, and catch an attitude with you. Like seriously, What did you just say to me? That wasn't even directed toward me, and I'm mad about it.

I don't care if you're older and white. I don't care how you were raised. I don't care about "the times" or "the way things were back then". I don't care what you meant or didn't mean by it. I don't care if you didn't know any better, because if you cared at all about what people who don't look like you prefer to be called these days, you could've asked somebody or looked it up (read: educated yourself) by now. And I certainly don't care that you're a customer and we're service people, because bottom line is the store is our house. Just because you are a potentially paying guest does not mean you get to disrespect us or hold everyone up due to your impatient assumption that the person already trying to help you is clueless.

No ma'am, no. Just. No.

Harper Lee hype

This phone conversation I had with a customer yesterday made me giggle:

Customer: Hello. Do you have that new Harper Lee book?

Me: Go Set a Watchman? No, that doesn't come out until Tuesday. The 14th. But we'll most definitely have it that day. We have a bunch coming in, so in the meantime I can reserve you a copy so that one will already be set aside for you.

Customer: Oh yes! Please do that!

[after having processed the reservation]

Customer: What time will you be open on Tuesday? I want to be there early.

Me: We're opening at 7am that day.

Customer: Whoa! 7am?! I'll be there early, but not that early!

Me: Haha well that's fine.

Customer: 7am, wow... Is there something else going on? Is Harper Lee going to be there or something?

Me (trying not to bust out laughing): ...No sir. It's just that the book is such a big deal, and people are so excited about it that we're opening really early to make sure anyone and everyone has a chance to get their hands on it here.

Customer: I see. Well thank you so much. See you Tuesday!

Books That Destroy

Working in a bookstore is all fun and games, until you're reminded of the conservative, rich, white area in which the store is situated. 

Many people of color can scarcely go a day without being slapped in the face with reminders of how little they matter in this country, and yesterday I learned that such reminders can show up even in places as seemingly safe, open, and harmless as bookstores. I thoroughly enjoy working in customer service, but yesterday I almost wanted to cry. 

On my first day back at work after a week-long vacation I had to process an online order for a book titled If I Had A Son, in which some white middle-aged bozo with a PhD from Duke claims to explain how Trayvon Martin was no angel, how the public was duped by the media which unfairly demonized George Zimmerman, and why Zimmerman's "not guilty" verdict actually makes perfect sense. In short, this grown so-called educated man wrote an entire effing book arguing why a black kid deserved to die and why everyone should feel sorry for the scumbag who killed him. And someone who frequents the bookstore I work at wanted to read it so badly that she took the time to order it. And I had to have this sham of a "book" processed, labeled, and ready for whenever she would come to get it. 

Now.

Having to walk around the store daily and see the names and faces of Ann Coulter and Michelle Malkin plastered on the covers of their ridiculously-titled publications was one thing. Having to repeatedly retrieve books by Bill O'Reilly for customers and hand them over with a smile on my face every week was one thing. Having to rush through the store while a customer was on hold that one time so I could grab a copy of the autobiography of Barbara Bush for them (when I didn't even know that this former first lady and progenitor of the disaster that was President "Dubya" was still alive!) was one thing.

But this. This really hurt my heart.

We are not even safe in centers of knowledge?
We are not even safe in centers of knowledge.

Just got paid :)

My favorite person, me, and my first paycheck ever in life! Though of course I'm not rolling in dough, I'm just glad to be experiencing this for the first time.