Or same racism, different day.
“Ma’am?”
The voice came from behind me as I leaned into the car to strap my two babies into their seats. I turned around to find a young, sandy-haired, athletic-looking college aged guy. What could this person possibly want with me — a sweaty, disheveled, middle-aged mom with two small kids?
“Excuse me, ma’am?” he said as I faced him. “Do you know that man in the car over there?” He pointed to another vehicle parked nearby.
“No,” I replied.
“Well, I’ve been watching him for a while. He’s been sitting there taking pictures of you and your little kids — just youand your kids.” I thanked him. As he walked away, he kept his eyes trained on the would-be photographer.
It was that last bit — the part about how the man was specifically taking pictures of me and my kids — that struck me. Without that detail, I would’ve been disturbed but probably would’ve dismissed it. Looking around, I understood why what the young guy witnessed bothered him enough to tell me about it.
The place was bustling with people coming and going from their vehicles. My car was parked in the section reserved for families with young children — we were surrounded by other parents and kids. But the young guy emphasized that this stranger was photographing only me and my children.
I glanced at the vehicle — a white Lincoln Town Car. An older white man with a beard, glasses, and unkempt gray hair sat behind the wheel. He met my gaze and stared back. When I shut my car door and took a few steps toward him, he started his vehicle and sped toward the exit. His hasty retreat confirmed what both the college student and I suspected — this old man was up to no good.
Angry and determined, I got in my car and followed him — probably not the smartest move, and not one I’d recommend today. After losing him in traffic, I returned to the parking lot, got my babies out of the car, walked inside, and reported the incident to the front desk. I gave them his license plate number. They were less than helpful.
This wasn’t just any random place — it was a parking lot I visit every day. The folks at the front desk knew me. This happened in broad daylight, with the sun shining bright and plenty of people around. The old man only tried to conceal his actions when he realized I was approaching his car.
What possible reason could this man have for photographing me and my babies? Why did the front desk staff shrug off my complaint? I can’t be completely certain, but it seems like racism is the most logical explanation.
My little ones are visibly black or biracial, with features that more closely resemble their black dad than me, their white mom. We live in the Southern U.S. The photographer’s old car had a new Trump sticker on its bumper. Based on my experience, old white men in the South who support Trump are more likely to hold racist views than not. And around here, racist behavior often gets brushed aside.
Here’s what I’m left with — something I’ve written about before — we live in a country where people constantly insist race doesn’t matter. I tell my family’s stories to challenge the widespread myth that everyone is perceived and treated equally. It’s my way of standing up to those who not only deny racism’s reality but also try to flip the script and claim white people are the true victims of racial discrimination.
In this context, our instincts and experiences as a mixed-race family navigating life here tell us that the parking lot photographer’s motives were nefarious — specifically, racist. Life lessons and hard-earned wisdom warn that this won’t be our last brush with bigotry — these kinds of encounters are far too common for us. After all, it was after exiting the building and walking to this very parking lot that someone called me “n****r lover.”
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