It Happened Again....

It Happened Again

Preface:
My research explores the relationship between Black women and retail—how bias, silence, and exclusion are stitched into our shopping experiences. I’ve collected the data, written the papers, and defended the theory. But knowing doesn’t soften the sting. When it happens to me, I don’t feel like a researcher collecting field notes. I feel like a Black woman—and a plus-size woman—being told I don’t belong. And the truth is: it still hurts. It hurts every single time.

The Start of the Day

It was the weekend before my 36th birthday. The kind of Saturday that felt too beautiful to stay inside. The sun was warm but not oppressive, the air just crisp enough to invite exploration. I thought, why not take advantage of it?

Life has been busy—work, school, motherhood—so I don’t get to wander Nashville the way I’d like. But that afternoon, I gave myself permission. And if you know me, you know how I like to spend that time: shopping.

I settled on Anthropologie. I had already called the store a few weeks earlier, asking a question I already knew the answer to: Do you carry plus sizes in-store? The answer was no. Still, I wanted to go. Sometimes, I just want to browse, soak up the displays, and be in the environment—even if I know the racks don’t hold clothes for me.

When I pulled up, it felt like the day was aligning. I found a parking space right in front of the store—golden, rare. My bright orange Volkswagen sat neatly in front of a Ferrari. It made me laugh: the juxtaposition of playful practicality and polished extravagance. It was giving luxury. It was giving contrasts. It was giving me a reason to smile.

I stepped out with my son. Immediately, I felt eyes on me. It wasn’t the fleeting, curious glance I sometimes get when I wear something bold—because yes, I often overdress. This was different. Longer. Sharper.

A man sitting outside stared as if I was out of place, as if my presence was unusual, even unwelcome. I brushed it off—I’m used to being the only Black woman in certain neighborhoods. Growing up in Cleveland, I’ve shopped in areas like Chagrin Falls or Beachwood, sometimes surrounded by mostly white shoppers, but still feeling an underlying welcome. This felt different. It was colder.

Still, I shook it off. I reminded myself: I’m here to enjoy the day. I’m here with my son.

Inside Anthropologie

The store itself looked like a Pinterest board come to life. Bright natural light, rustic wood, racks of softly colored dresses and home goods that seemed designed to whisper serenity.

But the silence was louder than anything.

An older associate, arms full of clothes, walked past me. She met my eyes—directly, clearly—but offered nothing. No smile. No “hello.” No “excuse me.” She simply turned to someone else.

Another associate did respond when I asked about the upstairs floor—but only because I initiated the conversation. “At home and clearance,” she said flatly. I thanked her and moved on.

Upstairs was more of the same. Not a single word. Not a single acknowledgment.

And as I walked through the racks, another thought pressed against me: I already know there’s nothing here for me.Anthropologie doesn’t carry plus sizes in-store. I had confirmed it weeks before. So not only am I a Black woman in a space that feels cold toward me—I’m a plus-size Black woman, taking up space in a store that hasn’t made room for me at all.

In those moments, I can feel the silent question in people’s eyes: Why are you here? You don’t belong in this store. You don’t belong in this body. You don’t belong in this skin.

It happened again. That old familiar feeling of being both invisible and hyper-visible at the same time.

The Weight of Presence

Here’s the thing: I know this script. I’ve studied it. I’ve interviewed Black women across the country who’ve described the same encounters—being ignored, being followed, being made to feel invisible.

But the knowledge doesn’t protect me. In that moment, I wasn’t a researcher or a scholar. I was a shopper, a mother, a plus-size Black woman simply trying to enjoy a Saturday.

I felt the way my body took up space—how much of it I occupied. I felt the way eyes narrowed, how silence can cut deeper than words.

And yet, I bought something. A small item, nothing major. Not because I needed it. But because I wanted to prove I belonged. I wanted to walk out with a bag in my hand, proof that I was a customer like anyone else.

But that’s not shopping. That’s purchasing permission.

Protecting My Son

The part I don’t often say: sometimes I stay quiet—not because I don’t feel it, but because my son is with me.

He doesn’t need to carry my discomfort. He doesn’t need to know yet how racism saturates even the simple act of shopping. I want his life to feel normal for as long as possible. Because one day, I know he won’t be able to escape it.

So I protect him with my silence. I keep my smile steady. I pretend this is just another ordinary day.

Outside Again

Leaving the store, bag in hand, I walked past the same man who had stared earlier. This time, three younger men stood with him, blocking the sidewalk. I said “excuse me” pleasantly, politely. No one moved.

I had to step into the street to pass.

And the truth hit me again: I am not safe. I am never fully safe. Not even while shopping.

Why It Matters

Retail should be about possibility. About discovery. About beauty. But for Black consumers, and especially for plus-size Black women, it too often becomes about survival. About being seen—or not seen at all.

And this is not just about me. It’s not that I should be treated better than another Black woman because of my education, my title, or my work in the industry.

This is about all of us.

Every Black woman deserves acknowledgment. Every Black woman deserves dignity. Every Black woman deserves to belong.

And yet—it happened again.

That’s the tragedy. That’s the pattern. We are still fighting to be spoken to in stores. Still fighting to have our presence acknowledged. Still fighting for the bare minimum of humanity in spaces designed to welcome consumers.

It happened again. And unless we name it, call it out, and demand better, it will keep happening.