Cotton pickin’

My car dealership must be out of their cotton pickin’ minds. There can be not other explanation for their risible excuse for “service”. So, I buy this second hand car, right. From a reputable dealer, no less.

Two months later, the clutch fails and I get saddled with a hefty bill. I (do way more than) pause to wonder, does this have to do with the fact that I’m black? After all, white is right and black can’t hack it. As a person of colour, I’m no stranger to bad service.

I am conditioned to accept baasskap and apologise for breathing in the process. I overlook things like rude waiters, snobby tellers and cashiers who roll their eyes because an item one dared to pluck from the aisle fails to scan. It’s ironic, too, because they themselves are black and victims of baasskap.

I must be over-reacting, right? I swiftly adjust my gruntle, and face the world, head bowed and scraping. What right do I to be disgruntled? Aggrieved? ETC. But each instance of racism slowly eats away at ones self esteem, eroding ones will to stand up against yet another onslaught.

Not this time. This time I emailed the dealer principle. Boom! They haven’t even begun to realise the shit storm that is about to be unleashed. Shit storm. I got into trouble for using that term once. Asinine. ASSinine. Shit Storm.

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