The new Jim Crow of 2016

The New Jim Crow of 2016 

 

Feb 12 2016

By: Casandra Xavier

 

 

Every single day we step out of our houses or wherever we’re coming out from, we’ve experienced something like the Jim Crow. I have always wanted to write about this for a long time. Now that I can, I will. I am an African American woman that can certainly talk about this subject. There was a blog online a few days ago and this topic came up. It was great to see that some people could have a conversation without getting wild. I watched the thread go on and not one person got rude.

I decided to write yet another article about Jim Crow and I would publish it this time.

I guess I could tell you all a few stories about my experiences with this happening each time I step into a store. It took a long time to write this entirely because I wanted to be sure that this subject was properly approached. Now, I am ready.  

I know there is a lot going on with all of the race stuff and I still contemplate about sharing this on any public platform. I wrote about my Jim Crow story back in college but I wanted to come back to that time again. I will do just that. Ever since I wrote an essay about this topic many years ago, things have changed with me and the world around me. Yet, this experience stuck with me for several years.  

 

What happened?

 I was in college at the time taking an African American course and this question came up. Our instructor asked us to write our own Jim Crow experience and I did what she said. It took a while to get it all out of my brain and into a computer screen. Gladly, I got it out. I wrote about my guitar shop voyage gone horribly wrong. I would like to go back to the time I sat in a class in Haldan Hall with my instructor.

I was at least twenty one at the time when this happened and I am now twenty six years old. Time has changed and so did I. I was so into music that I carried my guitar with me so that I could play during down time in college. I played at school events, even while the weather was warm and I would sit on the grass with some people looking on at me. I got to the point that I needed to get my strings changed. I decided that it would be a good idea to go to the guitar shop near Boston College that was split apart by the deadly train tracks I feared crossing. I crossed that road with my heart in my throat all of the time. My mobility skills were crap at all times of the day. I often found myself getting painfully impaled on objects that jutted out into my path. I was a hot mess traveling around but I’m not anymore. I barely hit things anymore. I am a good cane traveler. I am glad that they’ve moved the guitar center to another location. I don’t know where it is now but I’ll figure it out. I was also afraid to admit to people that I got hurt from getting stuck on objects because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself and lack of vision.

I arrived to the guitar shop after being rained on and in a crossfire of thunderstorms, a sense of relief washed over me the moment I smelled guitar wood. I knew I was home-free from traveling misery. I had both of my guitars on me that day, I cherished these guitars as if they were my children that I’ve never had. I had my own strings specifically for my guitar type and waited patiently to be seen by the guitar-guru.

He spoke to me with an uncertainty in his tone as I walked toward his voice, “Ma’am, how can I help you today?”

“I would like to have both of my guitars get string changes and tunings, sir. Thank you,” I replied respectfully. He sized me up and down. I knew he did. I felt the tension from his eyes roll up and down my physical features and my guitar cases. I interrupted his gaze and handed him the electric guitar, “Here’s the first guitar and its strings, sir,” he took it from me and began to unwind and clip the bad strings. The environment in that place became flooded with heavy medal lovers and it got really loud inside of the place. I found a chair and sat down with the other guitar as I waited for the guy to finish.

Suddenly, he came over to me and asked, “Excuse me, I would like to know if you stole or purchased this guitar and where?”

I replied, “Excuse me?”

He repeated the question with the straightest voice ever and I shifted in my seat, “Am I not allowed or deserving of owning guitars like the ones your tuning and changing strings on? Are these guitars too good for someone like myself to own?”

He didn’t say much except waiting for me to answer. I answered his questions with questions because I found that to be very rude and condescending to think that of me. I knew for a fact that the majority of people in this store and constant customers were not African American like myself. I asked him to give me back both of my guitars after re-stringing and tuning them. I never answered his question about my musical instruments that I paid for. I didn’t have to show him any proof of owning these devices as I’ve owned them for many years.

We argued back and forth about whether or not I had to show him anything at all. In the end, I didn’t show him anything, I walked out unharmed, my guitars came out of there with me as well. I told him that I was going to report his terrible service to the owner of the store. I did just what I said when the owner came out. I wanted nothing but changed strings and to be able to use my guitars peacefully. Instead, I get someone with an awful attitude who is still stuck in the old times still believing that a guitar was much too good for an African American woman to own. No, there is no instrument that is too good for anyone to own. I felt as entitled to own a guitar or two just like any other person who went into that horrible establishment.

When he gave me back my guitar, the strings were not in the right places and I mentioned this to him about the horrible job he performed on my precious child-guitars! In the near future, I eventually found someone who replaced and rearranged my guitar strings. I needed the strings changed in time because I was getting ready for a major performance, I was going to raise money for Haiti by way of playing guitar and singing.

I have never stepped foot in there ever again since that time. Plus, they got shut down.

 

I am good enough to own a guitar no matter what my skin color is and I still do own both guitars.