To the editor:
I made the mistake of going grocery shopping on the first of the month, at a big box store, in one of the poorest counties in Ohio. What I witnessed was soul-crushing. I hyperventilated while Ruth (name changed), the 76-year-old cashier, rang up my groceries. She didn’t notice my tremor, but why would she? She’s recovering from strep throat, “Don’t worry honey,” she said when she saw my eyebrows rise at this admission, clearing her throat while simultaneously touching my groceries. “I’ve been on antibiotics for 48 hours.”
“You should be at home, resting,” I told her gently.
“Yeah, well, I need the hours.”
I had just watched her deliberate loudly with her supervisor, a woman a quarter her age, who decided to have a conversation with Ruth about her schedule while yelling from more than 30 feet away. The topic: whether Ruth was required to take a lunch break. “I only work six hours today. I thought I could take just two breaks,” she lamented. The supervisor consulted someone and concurred–Ruth would not be forced to take a 30-minute lunch today. The relief on her deeply lined face was dystopian.
“Oh good. I need the hours. I have to leave early to pick up my grandkids from the bus. I need the money, but they come first. They always come first,” said the grandma who would be working on her feet for six hours, while on antibiotics and wearing her “Don’t Make Me Use My Teacher Voice” pin. (Was Ruth a retired teacher, sick, and ringing up groceries on arguably the busiest day of the month? I was shaking too deeply to inquire.)
The line behind me was more than 10-deep. All open lanes had similar lines. Worn-looking people who seemed resigned to waiting a ridiculous amount of time to purchase their food. Many were resupplying their pantries on the first day in a while they had the ability to do so.
Ruth moved through the checkout process slowly, deliberately. I didn’t mind; it gave us time to chat. The only reason I was antsy to get out of the store was to find relief from the crushing weight of what I was observing around me. My shaking was equal parts rage, anxiety, and despair. Rage that we live in a country with billionaires, and this is how so many of our neighbors, including our elders, scrape by. Anxiety because this could be any of us, could be me in 30 years. Despair because while standing in line, I received an email stating that my most recent request for assistance for our four adopted kids was denied on a technicality.
I took my receipt from Ruth’s withered hand and sincerely wished that she would feel better soon. She seemed touched by the expression of basic humanity, and she thanked me. I should have apologized. I should have told her how sorry I am to be a part of a society that functions this way. I considered it. But I knew the apology would turn into a tirade, there in the exceedingly long checkout line, with me screaming out in guttural rage. Screaming for Ruth, the people in line, my kids, all special needs kids, foster and adoptive parents, people living in poverty, and so many more. But I couldn’t risk being placed on a psychiatric hold. I had to get home to feed the cat. I swallowed the rage, and it made my whole body tremble.
The system works as designed. Our woefully inequitable economic reality is not an accident, and you cannot convince me otherwise. I refuse to sit by silently, watching this happen. Maybe I’m just screaming into the void, but at least I’m still screaming. I’ll also be using my voice in the voting booth in November, and anywhere else I think it might help. I know there are many of us who feel like screaming right now. I pray we join our voices and sing a new world into being.
Corrie Callaghan
Athens, Ohio