On the Receiving End of a Small Dignity

Interesting post. Not being there, it's impossible for me to say whether you did the best thing. But if your intentions were good, I don't see how your actions could possibly be chalked up to internalized racism. That's nuts. Whites in this society all benefit from white privilege, and too few of us are willing to acknowledge that simple fact as you have done. That said, I imagine I would've carried on as always - maybe striking up a friendly conversation with the African American woman, too, if I were feeling especially extroverted. Who's to say whether she might not simply have thought, "Gosh, people seem relaxed and friendly here!" Good fellow-feeling is often catching, don't you think?

I just deleted two comments. I've never even deleted one comment before. The first comment identified the folks who work at the gas station by name. Clearly the commenter liked folks who worked there. He shared some of what his own banter had been with them. He was curious about which of the workers I had been referring to. I felt uncomfortable with the post in that I realized I had "given our secret away." Would the gas station guy himself be alerted to the URL and see the story for himself. Likely yes. Would that be a problem?

It was after the second comment that I knew I had to take both of them down. The second comment gave two examples that, in the writer's mind, demonstrated the bad character of the folks who work/own that gas station.

True the story was grounded in real experiences. But as writing I meant it to be more like an inspirational tale. I wanted the story to be transpersonal, not personal. I certainly didn't expect it to be a come rate your local gas station opportunity.

In addition to taking down the two comments, I changed the name of the city where the story takes place.

I'm sure there is a lesson about blogging here; I just don't know what it is, yet.

I really enjoyed your blog post on the small dignity. Having a special just-between-us kind of minchag with people goes on all the time and its the kind of thing we rarely talk about. There's a store in my neighborhood that sells fresh produce. Over many years, the owner noticed that I often buy tomatoes off his discount shelf--those almost overripe and damaged ones that he can't in good conscience sell at full price. He once inquired and I told him that I like to use them for gazpacho or home made sauce. Now, frequently, when I come in he'll quietly go and get a bag of these tomatoes and put them in with my purchases but doesn't charge me. Now, would he have done this had there been any other customers in the store? I don't know, but I like the way he is honoring that we have a kind of a friendship through my being a good customer. I don't know if he does this with anyone else, but it doesn't really matter. I do enjoy that feeling of specialness.

Nice story. I thought that what you did spared the woman possible embarrassment if she saw you being able to "pump and pay" and find that she was not accorded the same courtesy, perhaps thinking that it was because she was black.

But "I remember the days" that when you drove up to the gas station, an attendant came out, filled up your tank, washed the windows front and back, opened the hood to check the oil and water and personally thanked you for your business after you paid him in cash or credit card -- and you might even have gotten some blue or green stamps, a sports glass or some other souvenir.
Pumping my own gas (which I do easily at the age of 81) seems acceptable now, and I am grateful that cars are technically built better so that oil and water does not need checking every time you fill the tank. The pumps work better too so that I don't spill any gasoline on my shoes, and I accomplish the task without talking to anyone!
Time marches on!

Sounds like you definitely did the right thing in deleting those two comments, Shai. I like your point about rituals.

You're talking about old-fashioned credit. I used to go shopping in Fargo and charge everything, pre-credit cards. Same at the corner grocery.

In this age of anonymous chain stores, being known fills a deep human desire. My son Zach and I used to go out for breakfast every Sunday morning at a Greek coffee shop in Roxborough. When we would come in, they would automatically serve me black coffee with milk in a little glass (not cream) and bring Zach chocolate milk, our standing order. I beamed each time. We were KNOWN!

Re: the African American lady in the beat-up car. I thought the end of the story was that before you could sensitively go in and amend your normal minhag, the owner also signaled to her to tank up, without paying first. That would have been a nice twist!