Black Friday in a Fabric Store

On Black Friday, I pulled into the parking lot of a fabric store at 6:05 am. Based on the number of cars, this store was off to a good start in the holiday shopping frenzy.

When I walked into the store, the manager stood at the cash register just inside the doors. I knew this man was the manager because I had seen him before. Today was different in that he wore a navy blue security guard uniform, including a dark necktie that reached from collar to waistband, with a badge prominently pinned just above his heart. He must want his foreboding presence to discourage shoplifting, I thought.

The manager-guard called out to me. I acknowledged his greeting.

I paid attention to the manager-guard as I began going through the advertised fabrics on tables near the customer service desk. He talked with the clerk at the register, but never spoke to any of the other shoppers who continued streaming through the doors.

Why was I greeted but not the others? Does it have anything to do with the fact that I was the only man to show up before breakfast to buy fabric? Did the manager-guard see me as a threat just because I was a man in a stereotypical women’s world?

At this same store several weeks before, I held a bolt of fabric as I waited for my turn at the cutting counter. An elderly woman turned to me and smiled. “You need to get a number,” she said. I held up the slip of paper I had in my hand and assured her I knew the routine. “Oh,” she said as she turned away. I am not sure how to fully interpret that “oh,” but it contained at least a little jolt of surprise.

My wife and I have shopped in that fabric store multiple times. As we discussed fabric combinations for a quilt project, we have had interruptions as someone commented on how well we worked together. I liked that; I think it is true. I have noticed others watching us, although they never said anything. So it isn’t just a manager-guard who notices a man in a fabric shop.

I am a member of a few online forums for quilters. I have lost track of the number of times someone begins a post with “girls,” apparently not realizing that a few of us boys are hanging around too. I have been to training sessions where the host assumed I inadvertently wandered into the wrong room. Nope, I paid for the chance to improve my longarm quilting skills.

As a white male in the United States, responses of this sort create a new awareness for me. But my experiences taste like whipped cream compared with the rancid dry milk some of my friends have had forced on them—women marginalized, men of color profiled. I smile and carry on while they find themselves at a dead standstill.

To be honest, I too am surprised to find myself strolling through the quilting world. Forty years ago music was my creative outlet of choice—sounds. Twenty years ago that shifted to writing—ideas. It looks like the last twenty years of my life may be filled with colors and shapes and patterns—fabric art. If I ever do something silly again like show up at a fabric store at 6:05 am, maybe I should consider the manager as a concierge even if he is wearing a badge.

As for my friends who experience social exclusion, I am the concierge.