Actually, I forced myself to go to Target after consciously (and subconsciously) dragging my feet all day long. I was scared of the explosion of consumerism. I was afraid I would cry or have an anxiety attack in the middle of Target or something equally as dramatic as wearing native Nigerian dress to Target.
So I went. In jeans and a tshirt and flipflops. I went and I pushed my cart through the aisles (and aisles and aisles). I got the ten or so things on my list and while any other Target run would find me traipsing through the rest of the aisles
I was already overwhelmed by all the other shoppers, on some kind of silent race to pull everything off the shelves in 30 seconds or less, all while on their cellphones. (As an aside, when did it become okay to discuss your divorce in the middle of the dental hygiene aisle?) Nobody looked at anybody else. Nobody apologized when the carts bumped into each other. They just beelined from aisle to aisle, shushing children, asking for price checks.
Admittedly, I felt the pangs of anxiety rising as I left the shampoo and conditioner aisle. Firstly, because THERE IS AN ENTIRE AISLE JUST FOR SHAMPOO AND CONDITIONER. Secondly, because I had this urge to scream (unnecessarily, inappropriately, and cruelly), "What are we doing?! Who are we?! Why are we doing this?! What is the meaning of all this?!"
Of course, an outburst would have solved nothing. Mostly it would have aggravated me, because as those silent-but-screaming-inside-my-head questions arose, I realized I was unable to even identify what "this" might be. I ticked through options in nanoseconds: Consumerism? Unavoidable. Going through the motions? Maybe. Keeping up with the Joneses? Probably.
None of those options are satisfactory, though, because none of them are limited to America. So I'm left back at zero. No answers, just silent screaming.
Culture shock is strange. Present and real, but strange. Unexpected.
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