The last two weeks have been, what? Shocking certainly. Challenging? Frustrating? Hopeless? Hopeful? Too much is going on and it’s hard to process.

After three months of social isolation and being sidelined from what was our normal daily routines, the horrific death of George Floyd, captured on video, blasted the status quo from its moorings.

We’ve seen militarized responses, peaceful demonstrations turned violent, men and women around the globe ‘taking a knee’, political posturing, unchecked rhetoric and lies. The news cycle has barely slowed. But we’ve also witnessed acts of charity and a coalescence of outrage that may eventually lead to meaningful, lasting change.

There’s nothing I can say that has not already been said. As a third generation black Canadian, my life experiences cannot be compared to the millions who have lived with oppression, fear, disdain and discrimination all their lives because of their colour.

My youngest granddaughter, a brilliant, beautiful, mixed-race young woman who identifies as black, attends university in Texas. People keep trying to figure out if she’s Mexican or Puerto Rican or from the Middle East. It’s as if they need to find a niche to place her in, so they know how to behave. Is she one of ‘us’ or one of ‘them’?

Here in Canada, we’re relatively safe in our little town outside of an urban area. The wailing of an emergency vehicle is an oddity rather than the soundtrack of our daily lives. But I’m not immune, either. I always knew that but I’m now more aware.

A few weeks ago, I had to go to the post office in our local Shoppers Drug to get a greeting card weighed. It was for a friend whose 94 year-old mother had died due to complications from Covid-19.

The only person in line, I was dressed neatly and wearing a mask. And with a head of white hair, I could not be mistaken for a grab-and-dash thief.

I stood on the socially-danced red X to wait.

The fifty-something White Lady (WL) behind the counter saw me standing there with the oversized envelope in my hand. She turned aside and began futzing around with a stack of forms. Deliberately. I took out my phone and began scrolling through messages. There was a Filipino woman stacking shelves nearby. She gave me a wry glance then returned to her work. Three minutes passed.

I saw WL give me another look before she returned to moving around packages of postage stamps. After another two minutes (yes, I checked), she squared her shoulders and said, ‘Yes’, in a loud voice. She tossed my envelope onto the scale, I paid for an extra stamp, said, ‘Thank you’ in an equally loud voice and left.

What that woman didn’t know is that the owner of that pharmacy is our neighbour. We chat all the time. Should I have stomped over to the dispensary and said something to him about her micro-aggressive bad behaviour? Why bother?

Am I a failure at being an Angry Black Woman? To some people, yes. I’m too much my mother’s daughter. She taught us to turn the other cheek. Don’t let them get to you. Be better. Besides, my energy is too precious to waste on someone else’s ignorance.