A Few Weeks Ago
A FEW WEEKS AGO
BY Cindy Huynh-Medrano
A few weeks ago, I took my toddler son and adolescent niece to a bookstore. When we walked in my son said, “Mama, there’s no helpers in here.” I replied, “You’re right. I’m sure they’re here somewhere.” As we made our way through the store, my son and niece picked up items, inquired about them, and then returned them to their place.
When my son and niece got to the back of the store, there was a table with toys including two jack-in-the-boxes. My son turned the handle and he and my niece giggled at the pop-up surprise. Moments after the jack-in-the box popped, the associate, who was white, came up to us and without saying a word, slammed the other jack-in-the box on top of the one my son and niece were playing with. Baffled, I turned to them and said, “Maybe don’t play with that one anymore.” My son and niece walked away but after a couple minutes, my son came back and turned the handle on the top jack-in-the-box. The associate stormed over and snatched both from him before walking away.
I followed the associate and said, “Excuse me, if you did not want them playing with those you could have simply asked them not to. The associate replied, “You need to control your children. I watched you on the cameras mishandling merchandise.” I refuted their claims and said that it is unbelievable that they, as an adult, felt the need to wrongfully accuse and treat children this way. They told me to leave the store. I assured that we would, but not without making it clear that my children, and all children, deserve respect. The associate yelled back, “You need to leave; you’re using abusive language towards me.” I turned to my son and niece, apologized for the associate’s behavior, and left the store.
After the incident, I took my son and niece to Eastridge’s indoor playground, Luv2Play. I waited until I heard their giggles and saw their rosy cheeks from running before I called my sister. “I can tell you’re mad; I hear your voice shaking.” After an hour of play, we walked through Eastridge and crossed the lot to Olive Garden, a beloved restaurant in my refugee household. We ate until we each declared, “I’m full!” Then, we made our way back inside the mall to try on big hats and sunglasses at JCPenney, raced up the ramps while yelling “meet ya!”, got frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles at Fruity Froyo, and took silly photobooth pictures.
Throughout the day I quietly carried the anger and sadness of the bookstore experience alongside my son and niece’s giggles, rosy cheeks, full bellies, and sticky hands. Relief came when my sister and partner affirmed that what the kids would remember most was how I centered their agency and joy. The narratives of malls are that they are dying, relics of the past. Eastridge is known for being outdated and deserted compared to other malls. But, it was Eastridge's walls that nurtured and held my son and niece’s joy that day. Their small footsteps racing across the ramps were met with elders’ smiles and grace. Voices speaking Spanish and Vietnamese extended familiarity, comfort, and comradery amid my hurt.
“The narratives of malls are that they are dying, relics of the past. Eastridge is known for being outdated and deserted compared to other malls. But, it was Eastridge’s walls that nurtured and held my son and niece’s joy that day. ”
Children brighten our lives in profound ways. As parents of color, we seek safe, dignified spaces for our children to exist freely and joyfully. The quiet hallways of Eastridge was that for us. It held space for our booming laughter, our enduring love, our humanity. It also held my dignity as a mother of color. For what might be understood as a relic of the past, our joy was so deeply present there, on that day, a few weeks ago.