A man, sitting behind a foldout table, was trying to get people to sign up for something or trying to sell them something, maybe shotguns seeing how one was laid out across the table.
A shotgun. In a grocery store.
Awesome.
My wife and I knew we didn't "belong" when we pulled into the parking lot. Well-used, massive pick-up trucks clustered at one end of it, hauling trailers containing ATVs, fishing poles, and stained coolers.
Never trust a parking lot without a Subaru.
It was obvious the residents in the tiny agricultural town had never seen a real-life African American before. Maybe they thought "those kinds" of people only lived in the TV. Women with fuzzy hair stared intently as my wife, and I, passed their rusted shopping carts. A group of men, no doubt belonging to the trucks in the parking lot, all with the same sized rotund stomachs peeking out of camouflaged jackets and sticking out over dusty dungarees, whispered to each other while standing in line behind us. Their mesh, foam-fronted, stiff-billed hats bounced atop their heads as they loudly laughed. I didn't need to hear what they were saying to know they were talking about the biracial lesbian couple who dared infiltrate their Real America. I could feel their scorn shaving off my skin in thin layers.
My wife had seen a redneck before. She knew what she was getting into when we pulled into the parking lot. I did, too, which was why we sat in the car and discussed whether we should go in or not. But we lived in the United States of America, the land of the free, and we could go anywhere we pleased. And my wife wanted apple juice!
People who think they own places, go out of their way to make anyone different feel uncomfortable, think using their calloused hands to shoot animals makes them Real Americans strike me as ignorant cowards. My wife and I have a right to be here as much as anyone else. At least we have the guts to leave our bubble and explore different places. That's a Real American.
