I was putting my three-year-old daughter back in the grocery-store cart, walking away from the motorized pony?the one that somehow only costs a penny and that I let her ride as many times as she wants because who knows how long I will be able to make her so happy for just a penny?when it happened.
An old man, leering from his perch on the bench, unsteady on his feet but still quick to lurch towards us, pointed a wrinkly hand toward her and raised his voice.
“Hey!” he shouted, his cane shaking with the effort of holding him up. “Hey, you! Smile, princess!”
My daughter’s face immediately crumpled into a frown at him and my body felt electrified with the shock of this happening already to my preschooler. I quickened my pace, propelling my cart forward. But he persisted?following us and re-doubling his efforts. “SMILE, princess!” he shouted louder, as we came neck-and-neck with him. “SMILE!”
I shot him the dirtiest look I could and fled from him, shielding my daughter with my body. He continued to chase us as long as he was able, past the registers and to the door, where he yelled louder and louder at my daughter.
As we escaped out into the open air of the parking lot, I watched her try to process what had just happened and I felt shaky with fear, rage and helplessness. Tears pricked my eyes as my mind flashed forward to what life will hold for her, all blonde hair and blue eyes, for what will happen when I will no longer...