Spoiled fun
Jonathan Eagan had been babysitting for nine years—since he was ten years old. Now at nineteen, he was building his business experience for the company he planned to run someday. His latest client was four-year-old Daffodil Underwood, whose German parents had chosen English translations of their names to avoid discrimination.
It was nighttime at SPYRO Books. Jonathan sat in a chair, reading a copy of Kiley Reid's Such a Fun Age. As he read, he playfully lifted Daffodil up and down with his calf, her delighted giggles a soft counterpoint to the quiet of the store.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice interrupted. Security guard Christopher Fernando Santa Teresa stood blocking their path. "What are you doing with this child? What's your relationship with her? You clearly aren't her father or any male relative."
Jonathan calmly closed the book around his finger, keeping his place. "I could be her uncle, you know. Black men do have white relatives, sir. If you don't know this, are you living in a bubble?"
"I never said that," the guard replied defensively.
"You wouldn't have to—you implied it," Jonathan shot back.
A woman with gray hair down to her chin, wearing a sleeveless magenta dress and orange zip-up jacket approached. "I'm a mother and grandmother myself," said Brittany Ward, who appeared to be in her 60s. "I don't want anything to happen to my children. That's why I was concerned about what I saw. Just a little worried."
Jonathan turned to her, his patience wearing thin. "How so? I mean, what did you find suspicious? What word would you use to be concerned about? Was she crying? Did she have bruises? Cuts? Was she acting reserved, looking down, avoiding eye contact? Trying to pull away from me? Or did the only thing you see was that she was black and I was white?"
"I... I..." Brittany stammered, clearly having no answer.
"Sir, could you please answer a question?" the security guard tried again.
"I'm not answering a damn thing," Jonathan declared, his voice rising. "And let me make something else clear: you're not a police officer. You could be arrested for doing this. It's called false imprisonment. Detaining someone and stopping them from leaving is a form of imprisonment, and you have no legal right to do it. You both admitted by your silence that you had no reason to suspect there was anything going on—anything wrong, anything to be concerned about. You're racially profiling me, plain and simple, and it's disgusting."
He took Daffodil's hand. "Let's go."
"You're not going anywhere when child safety is at risk," the guard said, putting his hands up. "It's the duty of an adult, especially a security guard like me, to intervene."
Jonathan's voice rose. "Security guards have no authority to detain ordinary citizens! If you don't know that, then you're stupid. And you don't give a damn about child safety. The only reason you think she's unsafe is because my complexion happens to be darker than hers. Now move out of my way—I'm gonna move you!"
The security guard backed up slightly, hands raised as if Jonathan were dangerous. "Sir, please calm down."
"I'm not calming down one damn bit!" Jonathan fumed.
The guard knelt down in front of Daffodil. "Little girl, could you tell me your name? Do you know this man?"
Brittany knelt beside him. "Is he your friend, sweetie?"
Daffodil just clung tighter to Jonathan's leg.
Jonathan glared at both of them. "Stop acting like I'm not here! The two of you automatically believe a white girl—only four years old—but disregard a mature Black adult man. That definitely proves you're racist."
The security guard reached for his radio to call backup just as the store manager approached. "What is going on here?"
"This man was acting suspiciously with this child," Brittany lied. "I was worried, and the security guard was just asking questions, doing his job."
"There was nothing suspicious!" Jonathan fiercely interrupted. "You lying witch! She wasn't bruised, cut, bleeding, acting scared, trying to get away from me, or crying or anything! You just thought a Black man with her was suspicious, and the same goes for your security guard."
The manager looked at Jonathan. "Sir, could you just tell us what your relationship is to clear things up?"
Jonathan was having none of it. "No, there's nothing to clear up. It's profiling, plain and simple."
"Sir," the manager said, his tone hardening slightly, "if you don't tell us your relationship, we have to inform the police. You're right, my security guard had no right to stop you, but the police can."
Jonathan gritted his teeth. "I'm a babysitter. I've been babysitting since I was ten, like I said. I put up flyers. This is a child I'm babysitting this afternoon named Daffodil, and her mother Griselda Tatiana Underwood hired me."
Santa Teresa scoffed. "So you're telling me a white lady hired some random Black guy off the street to watch her child?"
"I'm not a random Black guy, you asshole!" Jonathan shouted. "I'm a babysitter! I just told you I put up flyers! I've been babysitting for years, and this isn't even the first time I've babysat Daffodil! So shut your racist mouth."
"Shut up, Christopher," the manager said firmly. "Do you have the woman's number, sir?"
Jonathan nodded and gave him the number. The manager pulled out his iPhone with a line case around it and dialed.
"Yes ma'am, my name is SPYRO Vanderbilt of SPYRO Books. I'm calling to confirm that you have an African-American man named Jonathan Eagan looking after your child... Thank you for clearing this up, ma'am. The problem, as you asked, is apparently a security guard of mine and a customer thought something was suspicious... No ma'am, they didn't tell me what they found suspicious. In fact, I suspect just like your babysitter that the only thing they noticed that alarmed them was that he was Black and she was white... Yes ma'am, these two won't be making any trouble for Jonathan or anybody else in the store ever again."
Mr. Vanderbilt glared at Christopher. "Santa Teresa, take off that uniform, turn in your walkie-talkie, and get out of here. You're fired."
"But I was just trying to—" the guard protested.
"You were just being an idiot," Vanderbilt cut him off. "You had no reason to believe a child was in danger, and I won't have profilers ruining the reputation of my store. Get out now."
He turned to Brittany. "Ma'am, you are permanently banned from this store. I won't have you making trouble for any of my customers or their parents."
As the two left in shame, Vanderbilt turned to Jonathan. "I'm very sorry, sir. I do apologize for that. The book you have—"
"I'm not buying it, sir," Jonathan interrupted, placing the book back on the shelf. "The fact that you threatened to call the police unless I gave you her mother's number just shows you're no better than they are. You wouldn't give me the benefit of the doubt because I'm Black."
"I just wanted to be sure," Vanderbilt replied. "And I backed you up when Griselda confirmed."
"You backed me up because you got confirmation that you needed," Jonathan countered. "You wouldn't confirm when I literally showed no sign of committing a crime. You're profiling just like them, sir."
With that, Jonathan walked out of SPYRO Books, Daffodil's hand firmly in his, leaving behind the wreckage of assumptions based on nothing more than the color of his skin.
It was nighttime at SPYRO Books. Jonathan sat in a chair, reading a copy of Kiley Reid's Such a Fun Age. As he read, he playfully lifted Daffodil up and down with his calf, her delighted giggles a soft counterpoint to the quiet of the store.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice interrupted. Security guard Christopher Fernando Santa Teresa stood blocking their path. "What are you doing with this child? What's your relationship with her? You clearly aren't her father or any male relative."
Jonathan calmly closed the book around his finger, keeping his place. "I could be her uncle, you know. Black men do have white relatives, sir. If you don't know this, are you living in a bubble?"
"I never said that," the guard replied defensively.
"You wouldn't have to—you implied it," Jonathan shot back.
A woman with gray hair down to her chin, wearing a sleeveless magenta dress and orange zip-up jacket approached. "I'm a mother and grandmother myself," said Brittany Ward, who appeared to be in her 60s. "I don't want anything to happen to my children. That's why I was concerned about what I saw. Just a little worried."
Jonathan turned to her, his patience wearing thin. "How so? I mean, what did you find suspicious? What word would you use to be concerned about? Was she crying? Did she have bruises? Cuts? Was she acting reserved, looking down, avoiding eye contact? Trying to pull away from me? Or did the only thing you see was that she was black and I was white?"
"I... I..." Brittany stammered, clearly having no answer.
"Sir, could you please answer a question?" the security guard tried again.
"I'm not answering a damn thing," Jonathan declared, his voice rising. "And let me make something else clear: you're not a police officer. You could be arrested for doing this. It's called false imprisonment. Detaining someone and stopping them from leaving is a form of imprisonment, and you have no legal right to do it. You both admitted by your silence that you had no reason to suspect there was anything going on—anything wrong, anything to be concerned about. You're racially profiling me, plain and simple, and it's disgusting."
He took Daffodil's hand. "Let's go."
"You're not going anywhere when child safety is at risk," the guard said, putting his hands up. "It's the duty of an adult, especially a security guard like me, to intervene."
Jonathan's voice rose. "Security guards have no authority to detain ordinary citizens! If you don't know that, then you're stupid. And you don't give a damn about child safety. The only reason you think she's unsafe is because my complexion happens to be darker than hers. Now move out of my way—I'm gonna move you!"
The security guard backed up slightly, hands raised as if Jonathan were dangerous. "Sir, please calm down."
"I'm not calming down one damn bit!" Jonathan fumed.
The guard knelt down in front of Daffodil. "Little girl, could you tell me your name? Do you know this man?"
Brittany knelt beside him. "Is he your friend, sweetie?"
Daffodil just clung tighter to Jonathan's leg.
Jonathan glared at both of them. "Stop acting like I'm not here! The two of you automatically believe a white girl—only four years old—but disregard a mature Black adult man. That definitely proves you're racist."
The security guard reached for his radio to call backup just as the store manager approached. "What is going on here?"
"This man was acting suspiciously with this child," Brittany lied. "I was worried, and the security guard was just asking questions, doing his job."
"There was nothing suspicious!" Jonathan fiercely interrupted. "You lying witch! She wasn't bruised, cut, bleeding, acting scared, trying to get away from me, or crying or anything! You just thought a Black man with her was suspicious, and the same goes for your security guard."
The manager looked at Jonathan. "Sir, could you just tell us what your relationship is to clear things up?"
Jonathan was having none of it. "No, there's nothing to clear up. It's profiling, plain and simple."
"Sir," the manager said, his tone hardening slightly, "if you don't tell us your relationship, we have to inform the police. You're right, my security guard had no right to stop you, but the police can."
Jonathan gritted his teeth. "I'm a babysitter. I've been babysitting since I was ten, like I said. I put up flyers. This is a child I'm babysitting this afternoon named Daffodil, and her mother Griselda Tatiana Underwood hired me."
Santa Teresa scoffed. "So you're telling me a white lady hired some random Black guy off the street to watch her child?"
"I'm not a random Black guy, you asshole!" Jonathan shouted. "I'm a babysitter! I just told you I put up flyers! I've been babysitting for years, and this isn't even the first time I've babysat Daffodil! So shut your racist mouth."
"Shut up, Christopher," the manager said firmly. "Do you have the woman's number, sir?"
Jonathan nodded and gave him the number. The manager pulled out his iPhone with a line case around it and dialed.
"Yes ma'am, my name is SPYRO Vanderbilt of SPYRO Books. I'm calling to confirm that you have an African-American man named Jonathan Eagan looking after your child... Thank you for clearing this up, ma'am. The problem, as you asked, is apparently a security guard of mine and a customer thought something was suspicious... No ma'am, they didn't tell me what they found suspicious. In fact, I suspect just like your babysitter that the only thing they noticed that alarmed them was that he was Black and she was white... Yes ma'am, these two won't be making any trouble for Jonathan or anybody else in the store ever again."
Mr. Vanderbilt glared at Christopher. "Santa Teresa, take off that uniform, turn in your walkie-talkie, and get out of here. You're fired."
"But I was just trying to—" the guard protested.
"You were just being an idiot," Vanderbilt cut him off. "You had no reason to believe a child was in danger, and I won't have profilers ruining the reputation of my store. Get out now."
He turned to Brittany. "Ma'am, you are permanently banned from this store. I won't have you making trouble for any of my customers or their parents."
As the two left in shame, Vanderbilt turned to Jonathan. "I'm very sorry, sir. I do apologize for that. The book you have—"
"I'm not buying it, sir," Jonathan interrupted, placing the book back on the shelf. "The fact that you threatened to call the police unless I gave you her mother's number just shows you're no better than they are. You wouldn't give me the benefit of the doubt because I'm Black."
"I just wanted to be sure," Vanderbilt replied. "And I backed you up when Griselda confirmed."
"You backed me up because you got confirmation that you needed," Jonathan countered. "You wouldn't confirm when I literally showed no sign of committing a crime. You're profiling just like them, sir."
With that, Jonathan walked out of SPYRO Books, Daffodil's hand firmly in his, leaving behind the wreckage of assumptions based on nothing more than the color of his skin.
31-35, M