“Dad, an old lady called me Nigg*r”

Two weeks into his part-time job as a sandwich artist, my son Yosef, is learning more than how to craft a perfect chicken, bacon, and ranch footlong sub. Yosef is learning life lessons that have escaped my instruction.

Some of these lessons are simple – like the subjective nature of “extra mayo” to a customer.

Others, though, are far more serious.

Unfortunately, my son is beginning to understand that some people can be terrible. This ugliness has no bounds and can come to light over the most mundane of disagreements. Yosef is learning that, unfortunately, I can’t protect him from that type of cruelty anymore.

Yosef thought nothing of the old lady’s sandwich and cookie order as he shed his plastic gloves to ring up her total. This lady met Yosef’s request for payment with two coupons – one for a free cookie, the other a discount on the sandwich she’d ordered.

As Yosef’s tale goes, the old lady became quickly upset that she was unable to simultaneously use two coupons. The cash register simply would not allow such a transaction.

After a brief discussion, the lady abruptly paid, snatched her change, packed up her wallet, grabbed her sandwich bag, and let the “n” word fly.

Yes, an old lady, upset about missing out on a deal for a free $1.39 cookie called my son a “nigger”.

In his credit, Yosef, recapped the story to me in naïve amazement – taking a “you would not believe what this lady said to me” type of tone. His twenty-something manager, who is also black and validated the exchange, was far more upset.

Unlike Yosef, however, I was furious and have been since. In my fury, I immediately starting interrogating him with clarifying questions, like:

Are you sure you heard her correctly? (“Yes, dad, it was the hard ‘r’ version and everything.”)

How did you react? (“I just tried to explain.”)

Did you tell her to never come back? (“No, dad, I can’t do that.”)

Could you recognize her again? (“Not sure. I hope she doesn’t come back.”)

I simmered in the combination of amazement, anger, disappointment, and sadness. Moreover, I became lost in cluelessness about how to support Yosef – because, rest assured, this will happen again.

Suddenly, I stop asking questions.

I stop and simply apologize to my son.

He didn’t ask for this. He should not have to deal with such garbage.

Yosef responded, “I’m okay, Dad.”

Then, I tell other friends who will share my outrage. They each listen and apologize for Yosef having to deal with such hate.

They feel sorry for Yosef.

Then, I write this. People that I do not know will be outraged, tell their friends, apologize, and share their own story of hearing this awful word levied at their own loved one.

From afar, I’m sure they feel sorry for Yosef.

The cycle of “I’m sorry” will continue in perpetuity.

But, I do not want the apologies.

I just simply don’t want to type that awful word.

I simply don’t want my son to hear the “n” word ever again.

I simply do not want my comfortable, mostly white surroundings to numb me to the different reality that Yosef faces every day when he leaves our home.

I don’t want to stew on that old lady’s hateful words any longer.

I want to be better – a better dad, a more attentive antiracist, and a better servant to my community and to those around me.

I’ve had enough of the apologies.

I don’t want your sorry. Instead, I want your commitment to be better alongside of me.

I keep, though, thinking about that racist old lady and her useless, bunk coupon.

My last “want” is this: I want to buy that old lady her chocolate chip cookie – like the one that spawned her rage-filled, awful, racist name-calling in the direction of my son – and give it to her, calmly saying, “This cookie is courtesy of the young men behind the corner who will be made better because of your hate.”