v. 59 The Lost Language of Knowing: On ShopRite, My Mother, and Genuine Connection
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Part essay, part cultural commentary, and always rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Yesterday, while food shopping, I saw an older woman stop a younger woman in the aisle. She looked at her closely and asked, “Who are you? Why do I know you?” The younger woman didn’t flinch. She didn’t side-eye or brush her off. She paused, smiled, and said, “I’m Josephine’s daughter.” The moment was brief but filled with meaning. The elder nodded in recognition, and in that exchange, the air between them shifted. There was a sense of ease that felt familiar to me.
My mother used to do that all the time. She would stop someone mid-errand, take a beat to look at them (erghm, side-eye them) and then, in some form or another, ask who their people were. Sometimes she’d trace the connection out loud until they both remembered how they knew one another. I grew up inside that rhythm of belonging. Those moments were never about politeness or formality. They were about recognition. You saw someone and let them know that you did.
The younger woman at ShopRite knew how to respond because she, too, had been raised in that language. There was respect in her tone, a quiet understanding that you don’t dismiss an elder who calls to you in that way. You answer and you meet them where they are. That exchange made me think about how rarely I see this anymore. You still find it in parts of the South, where community ties hold firm, but growing up in the Northeast, I only experienced it within Black communities. Outside of these spaces (in my limited experience), that instinctive knowing seems to have faded.
I notice the difference every time I move between grocery stores. ShopRite draws everyone—working families, elders, neighbors, folks who still speak in that shorthand of familiarity. (And honestly, if you’ve ever been to ShopRite during the Can Can sale, you already know it’s the great equalizer. IYKYK) Everyone shows up. Whole Foods, where I shop more often these days out of convenience, feels different. The aisles are mostly quiet. People keep their distance. It’s efficient and polite, but it isn’t connecting. Privilege changes how we move through the world. In privileged spaces, the instinct to engage seems to disappear, replaced by a kind of isolation that hides beneath convenience. Watching these contrasts over the years has changed how I see people, and myself.
The older I get, the more aware I am of how class and comfort shape behavior, even my own.
I feel out of sorts in spaces that value pretense over connection. After years in the fashion industry and much of my adult life spent around privilege, I’ve learned how to perform when I need to. But today, I’m a grown ass woman and I have no interest in that anymore. Those rooms often reward people for pretending, and I’m long past pretending. Spaces without pretense remind me of home, where I still feel most like myself.
I think that’s why that moment between these two women hit me so hard. It felt genuine in a world that often isn’t. It reminded me of my mother, of the language of recognition she spoke so easily, and of how much that way of seeing one another has disappeared in many of the circles I’m in.
I also recognize that I communicate much like my mother did. If you’ve met me in person, you’ve probably felt it, a sense of no-nonsense familiarity and belonging. I speak to everyone in the same tone, not brusque, but direct. I’m not impressed by titles or connections, I say what I mean and I mean what I say. And I’ve learned over the years how much this builds trust with strangers and friends alike. I grew up with very little, and when you live that way, you don’t have the luxury of pretense. You have to be straightforward because survival and community depend on clarity. In privileged spaces, I sometimes feel that truth has been replaced by performance. There’s a carefulness in how people speak, a desire to be seen a certain way. In those spaces, façades often replace sincerity, and caution takes the place of genuine warmth. I understand it, but I don’t trust it. Clean, direct communication still feels like the most generous form of love I know.
Maybe we can all learn to speak this language again. It begins with looking people in the eye, saying good morning, and acknowledging your neighbors even if they don’t look like you. Allowing yourself to be part of the world around you, not separate from it. I do this often, especially when I walk through my own neighborhood. I say good morning and almost every time, a second later, someone says it back. That is the shift.
The language of belonging is still here. We just have to remember how to use it.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: Sitting down with my friend Henry Neff. Yes, that Henry Neff, beloved author of The Witchstone and the many other books that pull readers in without warning. We recorded a podcast episode together at Watchung Booksellers, the small Montclair bookstore that is also the heartbeat of the indie book world. Recording with them is basically being welcomed into a little corner of magic.
Henry & I talked about how we keep making things when life feels heavy and ended up laughing more than anything else. (Also, I apologize in advance about the …interesting… acronym.) That aside, it felt good to sit with a friend who understands the creative grind and also remembers that the whole point is to enjoy it. (Well, most of the time anyway.)
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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