I exited the elevator door of a place that I thought was familiar to only realize that the space was foreign. I had forgotten the entry code to get past the security door. “2305,” yelled some random dude who was entering the elevator. “I don’t know how I forgot this code,” I yelled back. I really didn’t know where I was going. But here I was wandering around trying to figure out why I was here. I looked around and saw a few grocery carts, scattered shelves filled with preserves and boxed pasta. I looked down and saw concrete floors – you know the ones with timid cracks and are covered with coats of clear gloss paint. 

            In the middle of the store, there was a station. You could buy vegetables and get them cooked for you in the store. People waited in line. Youngins hung out on the left side of the station. Between them and the workers who prepared the food stood a four feet counter and above the counter hung metal baskets with holes used to drain and hold the vegetables after you had chosen which ones you wanted. I had chosen to get cabbage because I thought it would be a nice dish to take to our Thanksgiving dinner. The boy walked over, mesmerized by the green and white leafy astonishments. He looked up and a few beads of the water slid down the circular boats landing on the tip of his nose. “Don’t do that, COVID is going around, you don’t want to spread germs to someone's food.” He slowly lowered his head until he locked eyes with me. Nodding my head from left to right, I continued, “Don’t hover over someone's food, it’s all about being respectful.” We heard a voice from the entry of the store, “Come on!” It was his mom. He threw his index finger in the air and signaled her to wait then looked back at me and said, “Yes mam.” He strutted towards the front of the grocery store and I, on the inside of the station, stood waiting for my dish to be cooked. 

            By the time my aluminum pan was sealed inserted into a brown paper sack, I heard the voice again. “You don’t talk to my child like that.” I looked up and she stood at least two feet taller than I was. “I don’t think I said anything that was hurtful to him, I was telling him how to respect others food boundaries,” I replied. “Like I said, DON’T talk to my child like that.” On the inside, I wanted to reply on her level to show her that I was truly a country girl who grew up watching people argue and fight. . . but nothing came out. Only silence. I just stood there. It seemed as if we were in an arena. Like we were in a ring and the shoppers were our audience. Her sister walked up and joined her. Two against one. “. . . cause don’t nobody mess with my nephew,” the sister said and before I knew it, I was standing face to face with both of them. Not backing down. Not shaking. Not talking. Just standing. Silently. I wanted to swing. In my mind, I was mapping out which one to hit first. I could see my cousins in the audience, this made me want to strike even more because I knew once they saw me strike, that would be their cue to strike too. But all of it was imagery because there I was, just standing. Looking. Not shaking. Silently.

           My cousins never had to make a move because I didn’t. The sisters walked off. I woke up. Crying because I wanted to say something. I wanted to say anything. Badly. I was hot. I felt weak for not saying anything back. Do you know how many people watched them embarrass me? But the solution didn’t require me to lift a fist to fight at all. And because I didn’t react, neither did my people. It saved us time, hurt, and probably injuries. 

          People are waiting for and watching your next move. Your very next move has the potential to implement order or cause chaos. 

Which one will you choose?