Dear Mrs. Bluth,
While I don’t know if this is appropriate for your column, I wanted to share with you and your readers something I recently experienced.
My daughter and her family live in a small Jewish community in a city not known for its support of Israel – in fact, it has boycotted Israeli products. I treated my daughter to a shopping spree that included outfitting the grandchildren with winter clothes and footwear and home accessories.
As my visit was drawing to a close, I asked her to drive us to the large supermarket that carried many of the kosher products and staples so that I could leave her with a house filled with food. She looked crestfallen when she told me that the store was under new ownership and, while it still carried kosher food, the staff and cashiers treated the Jewish clientele very shabbily. I wasn’t sure her statement was true, and told her we were going and I’m sure all would go well, since it was before chaggim and I was sure the management would appreciate the huge order we would be making.
We set off in her SUV with the seats turned down, making room for the six large coolers and room to spare for a mountain of non-perishable products. The parking lot was filled with cars, many of them belonging to members of the Jewish community. We each pulled two shopping carts to fill up and began shopping. We had put most of the stuff in the car when my daughter realized that we had completely forgotten to purchase the dry-goods, so back we went. As we neared the check-out, we heard a commotion just two customers in front of us. There stood an elderly woman, whom I recognized from shul, weeping as the cashier yelled at her for not moving her items to the counter fast enough and causing her line to be held up. I looked at my daughter, who just looked back at me with that I told you so look and trying to pretend as though nothing unusual or out of the ordinary was happening. By the way, so were all the other shoppers, although the cashier’s voice carried throughout the front of the store. At that moment, this new oleh came to understand that sabras were not just born and raised indigenous to Israel.
I stepped away from my daughter and the two filled carts we were waiting to check out and cut in front of the poor, mortified elderly woman. With my retained old New York moxie and my new-found Israeli attitude, I stared down that obnoxious cashier and asked her where she got the nerve to address a customer, let alone an elderly lady, in such a crass and debasing manner. I told her that if she didn’t apologize and help the woman unload her cart I would make sure to complain to the management about her (reading her name off of her name tag, to personalize my threat). She sneered at me and said the management didn’t care and would be happier not to have to service “these Jews.” At this, I turned around to my daughter and told her to leave the carts where they were and that we were never to shop in this establishment again.
We had not reached the exit doors when we heard shuffling and the sound of numerous feet behind us. As we turned around, we found nearly all those on line following us out, about thirty-five people, having left their carts on line where they had been waiting to check out and staring with satisfaction at the stunned look of all the cashiers and stock boys as we exited in unison. As we reached our car, two men who seemed to be partners in upper management, raced out and pleaded with all of us to return, that this scene would never repeat itself again. Seeing that most eyes turned in my direction, I ventured to say “…not today, but maybe tomorrow!”
