Once Upon A Time

“Once upon a time,” is a phrase that thrilled my ears when I was a kid. Tucked in a sea of blankets, clinging to my favourite stuffed plush, I sat in the middle of my parents trembling with excitement. Anticipating the magical tales they would tell me, I was mesmerized. My eyes would swell as big as bowling balls, you could see your reflection from my orbs, and my smile would grow so wide, I was convinced my face would break. My mind danced along in the endless possibilities; the endless dreams. These constructed stories are narrated to children to encourage them to believe beyond what our basic reality is; supporting their magnanimous dreams. It's every little girl's dream to live a fairy tale. Playing the princess, never the frog.

Growing up, reality settles in, pushing my dreams further away. Good manners are all I have retained from fairy tales, because ever since I was a little girl, I was always taught to be nice, friendly, and kind to others. It’s been engraved into my mind, like a name engraved into a headstone. However, I was never bothered by it, because it makes sense to me. To treat people the way I want to be treated. By being kind, how can others not like you? People should be kind to each other, because we share one space. So why is there so much negativity cluttering our limited space?

Once upon a time, I believed everyone could be nice to each other. That humans were capable of building a ultimately kind and friendly society. I don’t anymore.

Time passes unnoticeably when you’re having a good day. Time passed by quickly as waves of customers flowed in and out of our change rooms. Customers littered our floor looking for their ideal pieces. I was the only one scheduled to work in women’s fashion that day; while my coworker was the only one to work in men's fashion. Unlike a lot of people, I loved my job. It was the best feeling ever to be able to come to work, and enjoy your time spent there. Shopping is something people do often as a relaxing mechanism after a long day; I walked around with a smile on my face because I knew I could brighten someone’s day, even just for a moment.

Like Phoebe, from the classic TV series Friends, I have always been a flaming ball of enthusiasm. It never failed to brighten up my day when I helped customers find their perfect fit of clothing. At work, I never had to pretend because it was so natural. To just talk. Talk as if advising a friend on what to wear to a party. Like the wardrobe scene from White Chicks, or any cheesy comedy, it feels like we’re a bunch of friends giving our opinions to our friend in the change room who just wants to find the perfect outfit to catch everyone’s eye. Greeting all who passed me, I was trained to always offer my help, though the usual responses never failed me. Customers would either ask for my help, tell me they were just looking, or tell me they would let me know. I passed by our table of blue colour palette jeans, as I made my way back to the cash register. I instinctively greeted the last customer that crossed my path.

“Hi there, how are you doing today?” I asked.

“Hi”, The Caucasian lady replied.

I smiled, “Are you shopping for a particular event coming up? Anything I could help you with?” She looked around us. She re-tucked her already tucked platinum blonde hair behind her ear and readjusted her red designer purse in the knook of her arm with her freshly pedicured claws; she narrowed her eyes. Her gaze fell back onto me and scanned me from my head to my toes. She backed away from me, and asked me so nonchalantly, as if it naturally rolled off of her tongue, “Actually, is there another worker that could help me? Preferably of European descent?”

Dumbfounded. It seemed as though time stopped around me. I was frozen. Paralyzed. I could not move. I could not speak. I couldn’t believe what just happened; I didn’t know what had just happened. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing would come out. I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to say so many things, but I couldn’t find my vocals. Why could I not of been of any help? Was I not good enough? But despite my best efforts, all I could do was stare, like a deer in the headlights. Stare at this Barbie.

Premature wrinkles sneaked into her forehead as she stared at me wide-eyed, impatiently; I thought her eyes were going to fall out of her head. I asked her to repeat her question. She inhaled loudly, “Could you direct me to a worker here of European descent?” she drew out slowly one more time.

All life in my body drained downwards, and out of my being. Wow, is all I could think of, she was being serious. What do I say? What am I supposed to say? What do I do now? What am I supposed to do now? Is there protocol for this? Can I kick her out of the store? All these questions discoed my blackened mind. Not knowing what to do, I pushed all of my anger and hate downwards. I dug out my smile, plastering it back onto my face, but it fell back down. Straightening the smile back onto my tanned skin, I said, “No actually, I am the only one up here working today”.

“Well then, I’m okay”, she drew out, giving me one last smile. Sauntering away, she left me glued to the floor; my smile faltering, twitching.

My smile fell back down, letting out a heavy breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I stood there deadened; my breath taken away, too far away from my grasp. I didn’t feel like me. I didn’t feel good enough. I wanted to shy away, hide from everyone's eyes. I wanted to cover up my bare arms, so this would never happen again. I wanted to take off my name tag so badly, preventing people from asking me questions, so this would never happen again.

For the rest of my shift I felt hollow; my bubbly personality, gone. I didn’t feel like me, and I hated it. The feeling of not being good enough to be in my own skin stuck with me. I hated it. I was nervous to talk; I was ashamed to be noticed because of my race. Looking around me, I noticed my surroundings more. The kids around me were predominantly of European descent, with others of Asian descent. Why do they like me? Do they like me? Do they accept me? Are they really my friends? Would they like me more if I wasn’t of tanned skin? Would they trade me in for someone who is of a lighter skin tone?

I had experienced racism, but this time it felt different. I’ve always put blame on people's ignorance, but I can’t anymore. It permanently lays in mind, and I don’t think it’s ever going to leave. Should it leave? Or is it supposed to be here? All these questions tugged at my sleeve like a little kid would to their mother.

Because now, every time someone talks to me, I can’t help but thinking, “Would you treat me differently if my skin tone was lighter?” I felt like the ugly duckling in a pond of swans. I felt that I didn’t belong.

To feel comfortable in your own skin is a privilege. A privilege I had and am trying to regain. To feel ashamed of your story, where you came from. To be ashamed of your appearance, of your race. It’s an unbelievable sorrow, that I could have never have imagined. It brings you down, lowers your confidence, your expectations and your dreams.

As time went on, I’ve learnt to accept that people can’t all be changed. The world needs some falter, or else there is no more room for improvement, no more room to evolve. I still wonder if a time will come where society will be kind to each other no matter, but I guess that’s my Once upon a time.