Retail Politics

When I was a junior in college, I worked at a small dress shop in Texas for the summer. This was quite a step up for me. I began my wage-earning endeavors at the local Burger King, then I “graduated” to the Church’s’ Fried Chicken Franchise the following summer, and now this job. It was about two miles from my house, and I had to leave early to walk to the store so I could be there on time. 

When I arrived, the owner (a brusque no-nonsense man with a hard Southern drawl) would tell me to open the shipments of clothing and hang the items in different parts of the store. There was also an assistant manager, who was a more soft-spoken man, and two women who were said to be “blood sisters” but refused to speak to each other. I never found out the cause of their rift. I just treated them respectfully and separately.   

Looking back, I was surprised they hired me when I thought of how little experience I had, and how racially intolerant the area was. I must have somehow impressed them. My mother got a lot of jobs as a cleaning lady because she had the reputation for being “one of those Mexican’s who didn’t steal”, so I guess I was doing something right. My exposure to the job market was rather limited, as neither of my parents wanted me to go anywhere outside the house without their knowledge. It didn’t matter if it was a choir practice, visiting a friend, or running an errand.  For all the limiting of my childhood activities, it seemed my parents were projecting their fear of some sort of bad influence or perceived danger (like being exposed to drugs or getting pregnant), when it was really my father who was the serial carouser. He was the dominant figure in our household, and this didn’t change until he died. Then I got some freedom to assert a little more autonomy as I prepared to leave home. This would not have happened otherwise.  

Anyway, it was another day in the store, and I was at the register in the back with the manager.  He was telling me something about the drawer when we were interrupted by the sound of the bell at the door. A customer entered. The manager leaned over to me and whispered, “Lucy, follow that man.” He was black. I felt very uncomfortable with this request because I know what it’s like to be suspect just for being different. In high school, the father of one of my classmates managed a store and claimed that I stole something from him. Thank God, the people who mattered didn’t believe it.  

I hesitated, but the manager repeated himself. “Go follow him.” Slowly, I walked over to where the blouses and casual tops were, and the man was actively looking through them. I was nervous about my newly imposed surveillance role, so I tried to be as calm and friendly as I could as I approached him.  “Hi! Can help you?”  

“Yeah,” he replied. “Today’s my girlfriend’s birthday and I want to get her a top.”    

“That sounds very nice. What size is she?” I asked.  

He looked at me and said, “She’s about your size.” I found that all male shoppers would say that their wives, mothers and girlfriends were about my size. “I wear a large,” I said. “Is that, ok?”  

“Yeah,” he said, so I probed further. 

“How much do you want to spend?” (The store taught us to ask that.)  

“Eight to ten bucks,” he said. 

“We have several tops in that price range. The one you have is $7. Here’s one for $8.” 

As he was looking through the rack, I asked, “Does she have any favorite colors?” 

He paused. “I don’t know but… I like this one.” He had a medium beige knit with a henley style neck, long sleeves and a banded waist. Then he said, “I think I’ll take these two…” They were similar styles, but in muted colors like sage and dusty blue. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ll take all three.”  

I walked to the register with him and checked out the tops for him. He paid in cash. This young man gave us a nice sale. As I handed him the bag, I said, “I think she’ll like them. If they don’t fit or she wants another color, save the receipt so she can make an exchange. Thank you.”

“Thanks,” he said, and left, confident in his purchase and unaware of the manager’s suspicions.  

I looked at the manager quite pointedly and was dying to say something about prejudice or negative stereotypes, but thought better of it. Not only did I avoid an unpleasant encounter with the customer and the management, but I was also happy that I could help someone like me.

That encounter took place over 40 years ago. A lot has changed since then. I graduated from college and moved from Texas to Southern California. I got married and went back to my given name – Luz Maria. “Lucy” was the name given to me by a babysitter who registered me for kindergarten. I was Lucy Lopez until I got married and took my husband’s surname.  

During that time, I found Jesus (or perhaps he found me). As I slowly began to accept and embrace my sense of calling and ethnic identity, I became aware of how I was meant to protect others from the ravages of discrimination in a gentle and diplomatic way. I also had to learn how to speak up for myself. Sometimes my voice has been soft, other times forceful and prophetic. Many religions or philosophies encourage civil and compassionate behavior. Christians (or anyone with a conscience) are charged with protecting the poor and the vulnerable. We all have experiences that shape our views, but for anyone who claims to love God, that love must translate to caring about our neighbor. I wonder what would have happened to that young man if I hadn’t been there. 

Luz Maiuri is a chaplain at Yale New Haven Hospital in New Haven. She is the first full-time Spanish-speaking chaplain for the Spiritual Care Department in its 50-year history. She joined the department in November of 2010 and has served the Medical ICU, Oncology units, Heart and Vascular and several Medicine floors. She is an ordained minister and has worked in hospitals, churches and hospice agencies.