Glenn Beck brings you "The Christmas Sweater." And I bring you... "Kwanzaa Stamps." A seasonal tale of hope and forgiveness by Alan Wieder.
jeudi 24 décembre 2009
Cock-a-doodle-do. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and as soon as I walked into the post office on Wilshire & Detroit I could tell that the one postal clerk working didn’t like me one bit. A portly African-American woman with a wrathful face, she let out a loud, indignant huff as I came through the door, and another as I stepped up to the label-station.
Partly, and understandably, it was because she didn’t want to be working over the Thanksgiving holiday -- let alone deal with actual customers who couldn't wait till Monday to ship their stupid packages. I get that. And partly it was because I’d flagrantly violated USPS policy by bringing my schnauzer, Cosmo, into the office and hooking him to a post in the entranceway.
But more than anything else, it was because she obviously just hated my cracker ass. She took one look at me -– Jewy-white, bespectacled, seemingly moneyed and untroubled -- and decided I represented the very thing, in a historical sense, that had stationed her there behind that smudgy plexi window, sorting mail and doling out stamp sheets on a holiday weekend.
Yet, her resentful feelings aside, I still had to get my shit in the mail. I packed up my mailer, approached the window, and tried to be as considerate as possible as I put the envelope through the pull-down door.
“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” I said.
“You can’t bring your dog in here. You gotta move that dog outside,” she said.
“It's drizzling outside. Can I just keep him in here for two secs?”
“No. Move the dog.”
I dutifully took my dog (also very white, if that means anything) out into the rain and hitched him to a mailbox, not thrilled about it. Then I went back inside and reapproached the window with a smile.
“You put an Express Mail label on a Priority envelope. Choose one or the other and redo it,” she said.
Thinking a million nasty things I could reply, I silently did as told. Then returned the corrected 2-Day Priority envelope to the window, where she grumblingly processed my order. As she did, I looked down at the current spread of 44-cent stamp-sheet offerings -– “The Simpsons,” “Hawaii Statehood,” some standard holiday issues like “Nutcrackers” and “Madonna and Sleeping Child” –- and had an idea.
“I’d also like to buy some stamps,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, terribly put out by the additional request, and said: “Which ones you want?”
“Kwanzaa,” I said.
The word, from my mouth, made her head twirl. She eyed me with great suspicion, not knowing whether I was fucking with her, which I sort of was, and sort of wasn’t.
“You want Kwanzaa stamps?” she said.
“Yes. Three sheets please.”
“You celebrate Kwanzaa?”
“I celebrate the existence of Kwanzaa,” which was true. I really do think it’s a cool holiday.
I handed over my Visa card, letting her know that I was serious about the purchase. And, in that instant, the woman’s seething hatred suddenly lifted, as she opened herself to the possibility that I was, as honkey-ass bitches go, maybe worth giving the benefit of the doubt.
“How was your holiday?” she olive-branched, as she gathered Kwanzaa sheets.
“Oh. Me? Thanksgiving? Celebrate the eventual subjugation, domination, and massacre of millions of indigenous people? Stuff my face with turkey to relieve myself of the ignominious burden of history? Fuck that,” I said.
Or wanted to. But I’d come too far, made too much progress to blow it all on a lame quip. Instead I took my stamps and said, “It was great. Thanks for asking.”
Then, order complete, she smiled and said: “Now go get that cute dog of yours.”
That night I went home and lit a single black candle, in honor of the first night of Kwanzaa and its first principle of Umoja –- or unity. I didn’t have a kinara so I stuck it in my Menorah, defying my God for the sake of something bigger.
Now who says blacks and Jews can’t get along?
Cock-a-doodle-do. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and as soon as I walked into the post office on Wilshire & Detroit I could tell that the one postal clerk working didn’t like me one bit. A portly African-American woman with a wrathful face, she let out a loud, indignant huff as I came through the door, and another as I stepped up to the label-station.
Partly, and understandably, it was because she didn’t want to be working over the Thanksgiving holiday -- let alone deal with actual customers who couldn't wait till Monday to ship their stupid packages. I get that. And partly it was because I’d flagrantly violated USPS policy by bringing my schnauzer, Cosmo, into the office and hooking him to a post in the entranceway.
But more than anything else, it was because she obviously just hated my cracker ass. She took one look at me -– Jewy-white, bespectacled, seemingly moneyed and untroubled -- and decided I represented the very thing, in a historical sense, that had stationed her there behind that smudgy plexi window, sorting mail and doling out stamp sheets on a holiday weekend.
Yet, her resentful feelings aside, I still had to get my shit in the mail. I packed up my mailer, approached the window, and tried to be as considerate as possible as I put the envelope through the pull-down door.
“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” I said.
“You can’t bring your dog in here. You gotta move that dog outside,” she said.
“It's drizzling outside. Can I just keep him in here for two secs?”
“No. Move the dog.”
I dutifully took my dog (also very white, if that means anything) out into the rain and hitched him to a mailbox, not thrilled about it. Then I went back inside and reapproached the window with a smile.
“You put an Express Mail label on a Priority envelope. Choose one or the other and redo it,” she said.
Thinking a million nasty things I could reply, I silently did as told. Then returned the corrected 2-Day Priority envelope to the window, where she grumblingly processed my order. As she did, I looked down at the current spread of 44-cent stamp-sheet offerings -– “The Simpsons,” “Hawaii Statehood,” some standard holiday issues like “Nutcrackers” and “Madonna and Sleeping Child” –- and had an idea.
“I’d also like to buy some stamps,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, terribly put out by the additional request, and said: “Which ones you want?”
“Kwanzaa,” I said.
The word, from my mouth, made her head twirl. She eyed me with great suspicion, not knowing whether I was fucking with her, which I sort of was, and sort of wasn’t.
“You want Kwanzaa stamps?” she said.
“Yes. Three sheets please.”
“You celebrate Kwanzaa?”
“I celebrate the existence of Kwanzaa,” which was true. I really do think it’s a cool holiday.
I handed over my Visa card, letting her know that I was serious about the purchase. And, in that instant, the woman’s seething hatred suddenly lifted, as she opened herself to the possibility that I was, as honkey-ass bitches go, maybe worth giving the benefit of the doubt.
“How was your holiday?” she olive-branched, as she gathered Kwanzaa sheets.
“Oh. Me? Thanksgiving? Celebrate the eventual subjugation, domination, and massacre of millions of indigenous people? Stuff my face with turkey to relieve myself of the ignominious burden of history? Fuck that,” I said.
Or wanted to. But I’d come too far, made too much progress to blow it all on a lame quip. Instead I took my stamps and said, “It was great. Thanks for asking.”
Then, order complete, she smiled and said: “Now go get that cute dog of yours.”
That night I went home and lit a single black candle, in honor of the first night of Kwanzaa and its first principle of Umoja –- or unity. I didn’t have a kinara so I stuck it in my Menorah, defying my God for the sake of something bigger.
Now who says blacks and Jews can’t get along?
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