It was supposed to be a simple treat, a small indulgence to mark the end of summer before the kids returned to the grind of school. They had one last request: Chipotle. How could I resist? So, I found myself in line at the local branch, thinking more about their excitement than anything else as I waited.
The line was long, but I didn’t mind. It was one of those moments where you replay the day in your head, the laughter at home, the anticipation in their voices as they rattled off their favorite orders. By the time I reached the cashier, I had everything mapped out: three chicken bowls and one veggie bowl, just as they liked it.
The transaction began like any other. The cashier, moving with the speed and precision that only comes from repetition, rang up the items. But as I glanced at the receipt, something didn’t quite add up. My instinct nudged me—check the math. And there it was: I was being charged for two veggie bowls, two chicken bowls, and a random side of chicken. The total was $4.25 more than it should have been.
With a polite smile, I pointed out the discrepancy, hoping for a quick fix. “There seems to be some error in the calculation and billing,” I said, fully expecting a simple correction. But what I received was far from what I anticipated.
The cashier explained, rather matter-of-factly, that she had compensated for a chicken bowl by adding a side of chicken. It was a patchwork solution, one that didn’t sit right with me because, well, the math didn’t. I gently tried to explain that a side of chicken doesn’t equate to a full chicken bowl, especially when the prices are different. It should have been a straightforward clarification, but then came the curveball.
“Are you saying my math is wrong because I am a woman?” Her words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, as if she had flipped a switch that I didn’t even know existed. Gender? That hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was simply trying to ensure I paid the correct amount for our meal.
Before I could respond, her colleague at the grill, catching wind of the exchange but not the context, shouted, “Go girl!” It was like a rallying cry, a signal that something far bigger than the price of a burrito was at stake. In an instant, I found myself standing at the center of a storm I never saw coming.
And then, the manager arrived—another woman, who seemed to have already made up her mind about what was happening. Without so much as a question to understand the situation, she accused me of questioning the cashier’s math skills solely because of her gender. My head spun as I tried to process how a simple billing error had morphed into an accusation of sexism. I was stunned—floored, really. How had we gone from checking the receipt to this?
Two men, standing nearby, attempted to step in. They saw what was happening and tried to explain that I was merely pointing out a mistake. But their voices only added fuel to the fire, and the manager was quick to brand them as sexist too. At that moment, I realized there was no salvaging this situation. The narrative had been written, and there was no room for edits.
I paid the extra amount, not because it was fair, but because I saw no other way out. As I turned to leave, hoping to escape the mounting tension, a group of women at a nearby table started booing. “Sexist!” they called me. “You think women can’t do math!”
I felt the words like blows, sharp and undeserved. I wanted to explain, to defend myself, but the mob mentality had taken over. Reason had left the building, replaced by assumptions and accusations that had nothing to do with the truth.
I hurried out, heart pounding, feeling a mix of disbelief and sorrow. What should have been a simple errand had become a battleground, and I was leaving with more than just a bag of burritos—I was carrying the weight of an injustice that didn’t belong to me.
As I drove home, the incident replayed in my mind, each moment more surreal than the last. How had a billing mistake turned into this? It wasn’t just about the money—$4.25 was hardly worth the trouble. It was about something much deeper, a reflection of a society quick to judge, quick to assume the worst, and slow to seek understanding.
That night marked me, not because of the dollars lost, but because of what it symbolized. A growing culture where identity politics overshadow reason, where the rush to label someone can erase the truth. I wasn’t the villain they made me out to be, yet I was made to feel like one, and that’s a scar that doesn’t fade easily.
Driving home, the gravity of what had happened settled over me like a fog. This wasn’t just an unfortunate encounter; it was a signpost of where we might be heading as a society. A place where the most mundane interactions are tinged with fear, where reason and fairness are drowned out by loud, unfounded accusations.
I couldn’t help but wonder: is this the future we’re heading towards? Will every aspect of life be affected by these divisive tendencies? Will we see this in our workplaces, our schools, our communities—where suspicion and extremism overshadow the simple pursuit of truth?
Despite the bitterness of that night, one thing became clear to me: we cannot allow this kind of extreme thinking to dominate. We need to reclaim the middle ground, to push back against the tide of extremism that threatens to pull us under. As I reflect on what happened, I am more determined than ever to stand up for reason, fairness, and the right to engage in simple, honest interactions without fear of being misunderstood or misjudged.
