I am so saddened by how I was just treated. I was hungry and decided to go get a Little Caesars pizza since it takes like 10 minutes and it is right down the road; and, I did not feel like cooking. I threw on the closest sweatshirt, which happened to be the Women’s March sweatshirt I wore this weekend.
I get to Little Ceasars, hold the door open for a man coming out, and then proceed to walk to the counter and place my order. The cashier was very friendly and personable. I sit down to wait for my order because I ordered half cheese and half pep, and it needed to be made to order. There was a young man cutting and boxing pizzas and another young man standing at the counter visiting with him, and it seemed the cashier knew him too.
As I sit and wait and stare at the menu because I left my phone at home, the young man at the counter notices my sweatshirt and alerts the employee cutting and boxing pizzas. They laugh, whatever, no big deal, I can handle a difference of politics. I decide to not pay them any attention because there are other things I am worried about, like waiting for my pizza and figuring out what I need to do after I eat.
Well, the young man working decides to start clapping and chanting “Not my president!” followed by—- clap clap, clap-clap-clap, followed by a quieter, “oh wait, yes he is.” More muffled talking and giggling.
Okay, that was rude, but I really love pizza and I’m hungry. I really don’t want this guy to ruin my appetite, and I never said Trump wasn’t my president, because he is, even though I don’t like it.
I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me, why does he feel he can treat people this way?
“Not my president!” —clap clap, clap-clap-clap.
Repeat chorus. Loudly. Drum on counters.
(For fuck’s sake.)
Drum on counters.
Repeat chorus. Not as loudly.
Point me out to another employee.
Giggle with visitor.
Repeat chorus. Loudly.
This went on for about ten minutes. I finally had enough. I went to the cashier and asked for a refund. I told her “Hi, I would really like a refund. It’s extremely inappropriate that one of your employees would deliberately try to make me feel uncomfortable. I came here for a pizza, not a political argument.” I had to repeat myself.
She apologized; I said “It’s not your fault.”
I left so frustrated. I really just wanted a pizza.
That young man has fanned the fire in my heart telling me I am doing the right thing. I am even more motivated. I am NOT ashamed of wearing this sweatshirt. I am NOT ashamed of exercising my rights. You cannot intimidate me with rude comments and reprehensible pageantry of male supremacy. I will still march, I will still call our representatives, I will boycott, I will talk to my family and friends, I will call out the bigots. I will still take a stand in the face of opposition.
Someday, I hope that young man will clap and yell in celebration of what we are fighting for.