The Village's Values

A yellow tee-shirt with a clever phrase scrawled across the chest. I really should get some more shirts that aren’t black, but this one’s just a little too yellow. Blue shirt with the Canadian flag…a black sharpie and a little creativity could turn this into the perfect mix of acid social commentary and vintage chique. No, that’s a little too cliché. I continue pawing my way through the small/ medium rack at Value Village. Oh Baby…a white Blink-182 tour shirt, circa the “Dude Ranch” era (before they went all sappy). Perfect. I pull it from the rack and turn towards the change stalls. That’s when I notice him. The guy looks about my age. He’s eyeing the shirt as well; it’s obvious that we share a similar taste in used cotton garments, and his chagrin that I beat him to it isn’t hard to see. In fact, we don’t have similar tastes, we have the same taste. Aside from the fact that our ancestors were born on different continents, this guy could pretty much be me. Same canvas shoes, much worse for wear, same snug but not overly tight jeans. Same studded belt, chained wallet, seemingly random bracelets and a black Crass shirt. Rancid’s more my style, but that’s beside the point. I’m looking at this guy and realizing we probably have a lot in common, except for a moment that isn’t honestly my very first thought. Man, everyone really is prejudiced if they aren’t careful, even me. Annoyed at myself, I put the shirt down and step towards him. I’m gonna say hi, maybe try to strike up a conversation. Most of my team mates don’t seem to share the same enthusiasm for three overly distorted chords and a big helping of angst that me and this guy have, so I don’t get to debate the merits of Henry Rollins’ vocal ability all that often. Maybe this guy’s going to the Bad Religion show next week. Maybe I’ll meet him there, and he’ll introduce me to his friends, who happen to have a band and are looking for someone to play rhythm guitar, albeit poorly. Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship build on the foundation of shared musical interests. He catches my eye for a split second, and obviously recognizes the similarities too. Just as I draw a breath to offer a friendly yet slightly awkward “you find anything good?”, he lowers his eyes to his toes and shuffles meekly out of my way. I am instantly ashamed, not for him but of myself. I can’t count the number of times I pulled this exact same maneuver in high school to avoid one of my ‘social betters’, a so-called “popular kid”. As I stand there grappling with this strange reversal of roles, I can’t help but think of the injustices that have lead to this situation. This guy’s family were expert stewards of this country long before it was a “country” at all. Centuries before my various ancestors decided that Ireland was too hungry and Wales too wet, this guy’s people were the masters of the place I’m naive enough to think of as mine, and yet he lacks the self-confidence to say hi, much like I was afraid to even talk to Mallory Whitehead, let alone ask her on a date. Funny that this should take place in a store who’s name is the English translation of the word Iroquois word Kanata. Thanks to a few generations of ignorant Europeans that spawned a few disgusting government policies, some only recently abolished, I’m now cast in the role of tormentor. My shame deepens. I know what it is to feel you’re the lowest rung on the social ladder, the one that everyone steps on, and yet I’ve been blind to all the others with this same misconception. All of a sudden I’m the person being avoided. It’s an odd feeling, and one that I really don’t like.
I’ve been sort of wandering around the store for a while now, mulling this stuff over, but as I put my hand on the exit door I suddenly remember the tee-shirt and glance back over my shoulder. It’s gone, but there’s an aboriginal kid with a Crass shirt, studded belt and converse shoes holding something white in the check-out line.