Some time ago, as I waited in line at my local mini-mart I saw a man in his 20s come through the door with a serious expression. He knew exactly what he had come for and it was obviously that it was not to shop. He walked directly to what he thought was the end of the line in front of the cashier. In reality, though, he had just cut in front of the person in front of me without realizing it. The layout of this particular Carrefour City makes it confusing to know where the line is when one is not familiar. The regulars know that it is tucked in the middle of a narrow aisle lined with candy, chocolate and cookies that children nag their parents to buy as they are made to stand immobile and patient.
I observed the line-crasher. His nervous movements. His thick dark hair. Tan skin. A white sheet of paper in his right hand. When the cashier was ready for the next customer, he advanced. Looked at her with his dark, large, almond shaped, thickly-eyelashed eyes and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a job. I am reliable and hardworking…” His voice started to trail off and he looked down towards the paper in his hand as if an invitation for his listener’s blue eyes to look too.
I don’t remember if he stated his name, but it didn’t matter. Both the light-eyed cashier lady and I could tell that Mr. Dark Eyes was guilty of being North African in just a glance. His name was irrelevant, his face revealed his crime of being Arab instantaneously.
“We don’t have any positions available right now,” she explained as she accepted his resume, “but I’ll contact you if something opens up.”
He was just looking for work. My heart sank.
I looked at the cashier, Ms. Light Eyes, who I am aquainted with well. Unbeknownst to the job-hunter, he had spoken directly to the boss. I knew that she didn’t mean a word she said about ever getting in touch with him.
I have lived in this neighborhood since 2009, and I have witnessed this store switch hands twice, from one multi-national chain to the next. But despite all of this change one thing has not evolved: the profile of the employees hired. Anyone one over thirty or tan-skinned need not apply! You will see one female employee other than the boss at the register, but notice that she resembles Ms. Light Eyes. That’s because she is her daughter. All other females are unwanted.
That said, two Black people a Malagasy did manage to slide through the filter over the past 13 years. It puzzles me, truly! How did they do it?! But, the Arab-free policy has been flawless. Even though, in Toulouse, where there are far more Arabs than people of sub-Saharan ethnicity, not a one has ever worked at this corner store near my home.
*
My heart still weighing heavy in my chest and beating hard, I got an incredible urge to run after my fellow unhireable citizen and warn him. But first, I dutifully waited for my turn at the register, looked at Ms. Light Eyes with my own dark eyes and paid to purchase her merchandise. I almost said something brazen to her about her discriminatory hiring policy, but I did not. Years of being a minority here have worn on me and broken my spirit. (Mecca in America was a different person.)
I even started to change my mind about running after Mr. Dark Eyes to tell him he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Exhausted from years of thinking about something that shouldn’t even be a topic: discrimination. I asked myself: “Is it my place to tell him? What if I’m wrong about the boss being racist? (Yeah, right?!)” I put my head down. Feeling the burden of it all come over me. Staring at my feet, because all of the blue-eyed people walking around me at that moment just made me feel unwanted and alone.
Then, out of nowhere, I heard a voice I recognized. I looked up and there he was right in front of me: Mr. Dark Eyes! He was on his phone. I felt relieved. A voice in my head said, “Well, you can’t interupt him while he’s on his phone. Plus, he doesn’t even know you.” And in Toulouse strangers do NOT talk to each other (unless it’s to complain about the bus or train being late).
I picked up my pace and eavesdropped as I sped past him. He was saying:
“I just left Carrefour City. I spoke to a lady who said they weren’t hiring right now. But she said that she would get in touch if something opened up.” On the last sentence his voice lifted and he sounded hopeful. I kept on walking, and me, again, my heart dipped low.
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Update (Friday, February 18, 2022):
A few days after I wrote the above post, something uncanny happened. I was shopping for chips in the Carrefour City I mentioned when heard the word shekshouka called out from the front of the store. Shekshouka is the name of an Algerian dish made of onions and bell peppers. I recognized the voice. It came from one the male 20-something cashiers.
When I reached him with my dijon flavored potato chips, I asked him about the onion and bell pepper dish. He explained that his mother was Algerian and “made the best shekshouka.” As it turns out he is of mixed origin, having a White French father. To most people he looks White. And should one see or hear his name, that too, appears very White French.
So I wonder: how did a half-Arab get hired at Carrefour City. Was it his impressive resume? Was it his charm? Or his French name?
How entertaining to think that Ms. Light Eyes let in “a wolf in sheeps clothing,” or at least, that is how she would see it.
Pardon My France 