If it is in fact true what my family claims concerning the possibility of me having multiple personality disorder, or more correctly, dissociative identity disorder, then I will admit that this recent customer met at least three of them in the past ten minutes; the last of which being the dreaded Yolanda.
I wasn’t supposed to be working and dealing with customers. I was just sitting in front of the office in pleasant conversation with a friend under the gazebo. I purposely avoided going into the office so I wouldn’t get sucked into the frenzy of wolf watchers and campers. I was recuperating from lung surgery, still in pain and not up to working, as I got winded easily. I felt I had enough staff on hand to allow me a day off. I was wrong. A wave of regret washed over me as my son came out of the office with a woman not three paces behind. I could read the forewarning in his expression as he tried a larger stride to allow a few seconds of verbiage before she was alongside of me.
The woman sat on my bench, smiled sweetly and demanded a poster hanging in the office be removed immediately because she thought it was offensive. I smiled back and answered simply “no”. The poster in question was given as a joke because of the continuous problems with spoiled undisciplined children who are allowed to run rampant in my store by their parents. The poster depicts two mischievous looking blond haired boys shaking what looks like their fists but on closer inspection reveals the slight lift of the middle finger. The print on the poster states: Notice to parents, unattended children will be captured and sold as slaves.
This poster gets humorous reactions from customers of all race and age. I have been asked if I sell copies of it so many times, that I reproduced it on letter size paper and give them away to anyone who asks. Children giggle nervously and adults laugh. This woman was devoid of humor.
She moved closer to me and again insisted the poster be removed. Again I calmly responded with a no, but suggested if she doesn’t want to look at it, she need not go into the office. Moving closer still and crossing the invisible boundary into my personal space, she would not give up on her mission. I believe that was when Francine, the business personality of my family’s D.I.D diagnosis began to drop like a curtain over my countenance. “I accept your opinion, but disagree, and the poster will remain where it is”, she was told.
The woman insisted the poster offended her children because “it” was in their DNA. Although she was white, her husband was Afro-American. I looked in disbelief and chuckled as I responded. “Lady, trust me, there is a lot of stuff in my DNA and my ancestry, and I’m over it and have dealt with it.” I suggested she take her children out of the store and leave. But she had no intention of leaving until she badgered and intimidated me into removing the poster. I replied, that my ancestors were not slave owners, neither her husband nor her children were slaves, and it was time they let go of the past. I also reminded her that it was my property, my store, my window, my poster and my choice as to what I have on my walls. She threatened not to come back again, to which I replied it was her choice and I wouldn’t lose sleep over that.
Seeing I was getting winded and stressed, my friend repeatedly told the woman I was not well and she needed to leave. Still she refused. Trying to maintain some sort of composure I again suggested she take her children home. That was when she admitted that her children were not even at the camp that day. Trying to understand, I asked how old her children were. When she told me they were in their 40s, I was incredulous. I could feel Francine was struggling to stay in the forefront, but by now, Yolanda was emerging and rising like a suffocating mist. The more I denied her wishes and told her to leave, the more she moved into my personal space and refused to go until she got what she wanted. Yolanda grew like a genie from Aladdin’s lamp and commandeered my being. I felt my blood pressure rise like the mercury on a thermometer, my heartbeat doubled and the rage I had been suppressing caused my throat to restrict. I felt myself become an observer as Yolanda took complete control, determined to finally end this stalemate.
I vaguely remember feeling my lips move, and hearing a voice that sounded familiar, but not quite my own. It was loud and strained, and the words just spilled out taking all the strength that remained. “Get the f--- out of my face and off my property now or I’ll have the police escort you off!” I was spent, but I was finally heard. My husband came out of the office and made the woman and her husband leave the premises. Yolanda retreated into the recesses of my brain as quick as she had emerged. I glanced at my friend and sheepishly stated, “Yolanda made me do it” and we laughed, relieved that it was over. As I turned toward the door, I realized a man had been close enough to have heard my explosion. I apologized to him and he made us laugh again when he shrugged, and said, “hey I’m from New Jersey, that was nothing!”
I took a slow and deliberate breath as I tried to unlock my clenched jaws. I could feel the volume of air increase as my nostrils flared and my lungs expanded until a sharp pain in my chest forced the air through my mouth as my jaw slacked. I was making a conscious effort to control my breathing and bring my blood pressure back to normal as my anger waned. I was annoyed with both the customer who I had just finished dealing with as well as myself for allowing her to bring me to the precipice of blind rage.
Hindsight is always 20/20. After the fact you review and think of different ways to respond to various situations. Unfortunately, you are not always able to call “do-over”, but if I could, I would have liked to delve further into the DNA reference. I would have liked to remind her that there were white slaves too, as well as Jewish, Roman, Egyptian, and so on. I’m not sure when “slaves” and “black” became synonymous. I almost went inside, got a copy and posted another one on the outside window, but managed that small amount of restraint. Perhaps it was her ancestors who owned slaves and she was trying to overcome some sort of ancestral guilt. I concede the past needs to be remembered so that history won’t repeat itself, but we also need to remember it is in the past and hatred and prejudice should not be perpetuated. I am just grateful that Yolanda retreated when she did or she may have suggested a lifeguard be hired for their gene pool, or perhaps they should pull the plug, drain it completely, and not procreate.
