I wrote this in the parking lot of a Nordstrom Rack. My mouth tasted like raspberry sweet tea and regret. 

the women filter out of the local Nordstrom Rack in their upper middle class finery. loose jeans or capri linens with lines to tastefully show off svelte Pilates bodies. collared shirts and the same mid-range jewelry draped gracefully across long necks. there is a sea of blonde hair; some natural, others clearly not, and light eyes. the women walk in and out of the store with the kind of confidence only a lifetime of yeses can inspire. i have the familiar feeling that i am the darkest one here, and that i have the least money in my checkbook. there is an anxiety that i will be found out, thrumming beneath my skin, right down in my very essence. soon, someone will point me out and say, “she’s working class.” the words will be a hushed gasp. they cannot speak too loud. the dance of the haves and have nots is always so delicate a move to maintain. following this proclamation, i will unceremoniously be hauled back where i belong. in norcal nothing towns and trailer parks and houses with crumbling wallpaper and floors that creak. but the white women do not notice me, enraptured with their phones and their swinging bags of new purchases. i walk back to my car, and there is a hollow feeling in the finality of the clicking door. sometimes progress feels a lot like betrayal.