As woke as I am, I am also desensitized to the daily chip-aways I experience as a woman. Even when they happen, I don’t speak up as much as I should. This was brought to my attention recently when I went to the pharmacy with a friend to refill a prescription.
I walked to the drop-off counter, where there was a little sign asking patrons to maintain a respectful distance for the privacy of others. Fair enough. I mean, who wants Joe Blow behind them knowing they need their hemorrhoid cream refilled?
So, I stood there, and the pharmacy assistant sat at a desk about 10 feet away from the front counter. He looked up at me and, without getting up, asked—in full voice—what I wanted. I told him I’d like to fill a prescription. He asked—loudly enough that I questioned the point of a sign asking for space for privacy—for my personal info: my last name, first name, date of birth, which I provided with my best “class presentation volume level” voice, despite the butterflies in my stomach.
After I clarified from across the abyss of the desk that I indeed go to Camosun, and yes, sir, I had paid my tuition, he asked what prescription I wanted to fill.
Now, I’m not one to care about these types of things, but having to project across a pharmacy that I needed to refill my prescription for birth control seemed like a gross invasion of my privacy—plus, come on! Sign!
He clarified an aspect of my prescription with the pharmacist, who was even further away from us—but don’t worry, the assistant said it loud enough for the pharmacist to hear without having to get up from his desk.
After being informed that I could pick up my prescription in an hour, I shuffled out of the pharmacy. Once out of earshot, I hesitantly asked my friend if he thought the pharmacist’s behaviour was inappropriate—the not-so-colourful version of his answer was “yes.” Yes, he did.
He wanted to know why I didn’t say anything. I should complain; it had to be a violation of some kind of code of ethics. He said I should say something or he would. I, very uncharacteristically, shrivelled into myself and assured him I would.
I never did. Because the reality is, if he—being a cis white male—said something, he would be assertive and probably get an apology.
If I did—if I hollered back across the counter that I wasn’t comfortable shouting my information, if I suggested homeboy get off his booty and come talk to me at the desk like he’s supposed to—I would be labelled as “difficult,” and probably be referred to as the “crazy lady customer” for the rest of the day.
I wish it were different. And maybe one day it will be. Maybe the pharmacist will read this, and realize that just because someone holds power doesn’t mean they should abuse it.