The Sun
Sunnyvale's Newspaper

Wonderland became a nightmare

By Ann Lencioni

It's an upscale gift shop in one of the Bay Area's lovely communities, on the affluent side. At this time of the year, as if by magic, it is converted into a Christmas wonderland. Every inch of it is exquisitely decorated--a sweet-smelling mini-forest of pine and holly aglow with thousands of tiny white lights. The expensive sparkle of gold and silver is everywhere.

I'd been there many times throughout the year in search of that special gift and, lately, to simply enjoy. But this day I was there with my elderly father's caregiver, a woman from El Salvador. I wanted her to see the festive decorations, and she had a little shopping to do.

We spoke Spanish on entering the shop, as she and I always do. Mine is a natural, easy Spanish that, even to the untrained ear, is clearly not learned from a book. Hers, too, of course. But even when she doesn't speak, her heritage--unlike mine--is obvious.

A clerk behind the counter raised her head and stared our way. Did I look vaguely familiar, and was she attempting a greeting? Was she just delighted that we had stopped in? Not really. Suddenly I felt uneasy in this environment, where just a few days before I had been comfortable. This day, everything was different and, painfully, I understood why.

Our short time in the dreamlike shop turned into a nightmare. As we walked around the crowded aisles, more than one pair of eyes followed us. I don't know when or how the clerk who first noticed us put out the alert, but my presence and that of my very Latino companion became something to be reckoned with.

While others enjoyed the luxury of being ignored as they touched and examined the pricey trinkets, we always had a salesperson nearby, watching. With political correctness, we were reminded that whatever we wanted to buy could be put on the counter while we continued to look. Some clients even turned their heads--discreetly--at the sound of my Spanish and the sight of my companion with the olive skin and the Mayan eyes.

And during a moment that for the rest of my life I'll wish I could change, I cringed when she picked up a little glass Santa. Please, I said to myself, put it back! For a shameful, fleeting second I doubted the honesty of this supremely honest woman to whom every day I entrust my home, all my material possessions and my priceless 96-year-old father! The entire episode in the gift shop lasted only a few minutes, and it was subtle. But for me, it was no less than one of those moments in time--raw, and intense. I felt diminished. When I walked out, I felt less human than when I walked in. In desperation, I wanted to silence the beautiful language of my ancestors, to replace it forever with my perfect English. For a deplorable moment, I gave in to the fear and suspicion around me, and I betrayed a trust.

She--this proud and noble woman--didn't speak a word about the incident. But, in dark silence, her eyes told the age-old story.

That night I watched a television talk show about young African American men and how much they long to be able to walk down a suburban street without arousing suspicion. Wil Smith, the actor, said he is stopped by the police at least twice a month because he is a black man driving an expensive car. "Guilty until proven innocent." It's the bitter cry of the inner city--persistent, loud. Still, for most of us, it is somewhat remote. But I heard it in a place close to home, far from the inner city. And it was coming from me.

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The Sun Sunnyvale's Newspaper

Wonderland became a nightmare

The Sun
Sunnyvale's Newspaper