I is for Injured

Racism and anti-racism are crude terms. At the end of the day, it’s the little things that count. I was at the supermarket with my daughter, the youngest one. As I usually am every Friday. I pick her up from school and we go to a hypermarket a bit off the beaten track, which is cheaper. She helps me with the shopping and afterwards I buy her a bar of chocolate. It’s the agreement we have. By the door they have giant packs of toilet paper; I take one and put it in the trolley, so she has something soft to sit on. Then we head down the aisles. I don’t know what got into me that Friday. I must have been distracted. Not by anything particularly important. In any case, I didn’t realize she was holding onto the side of the trolley. Her hand was sticking out. I didn’t notice either that someone was coming the other way, with another trolley. The accident happened near the cornflakes. My daughter’s hand was crushed between the two trolleys. At first she didn’t cry. She bit her lips; she was trying to be brave. Then she burst into tears. Show me your finger, I said. And yes, there was a small cut. It was even bleeding. An assistant arrived from somewhere. She was in the store uniform, her hair hidden under a scarf. Her forehead was wrinkled, her accent unmistakable. She stroked my daughter’s hair, comforted her with soft words and asked another assistant to run and get a plaster. While we waited, she talked to my daughter. She told her she was pretty, and brave. She told her a funny story about a giraffe. My daughter smiled, and stopped crying. The second assistant arrived with the plaster. I wrapped it round my daughter’s finger. Carefully. My daughter wiped away the last of her tears. I thanked the first assistant, the older one, with the scarf on her head. And the second, the younger one. I put my hands together in a sign of gratitude. And I felt my heart swell in my chest, as if it was taking up more space. Only when we moved away from the two assistants did my daughter ask: Daddy, why was that woman talking funny? She wasn’t talking funny, I replied. She had an Arabic accent, that’s all. She’s Arabic. And the one who brought the plaster too? Yes, I said. She stared at me the way she always does when she’s taking in new information, then she said: she was nice. Yes she was nice, I replied. After that we didn’t mention it again. I bought her two bars of chocolate instead of just one, and she was pleased. We paid at the checkout and packed the shopping. Then we set off home, without talking. Racism and anti-racism are crude terms. At the end of the day, it’s the little things that count, I hope.