In spite of it being for my benefit, my bank’s fraud alert irritates the hell out of me. I find it especially judgmental. I know judgment well: I was made to regularly confess my sins to a priest. Not behind some wall like on TV either. Face to face with the man who knows you weren’t masturbating to Janet Jackson, but The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
My bank’s fraud alert lets me know when I haven’t been to Houston in a while because it assumes the purchase I made couldn’t have been me. I must have been in Los Angeles or New York or Washington, D.C. Then again, in New York, my Apple Pay was slapped back to Earth when I tried to buy denim at a price point my fraud alert felt I couldn’t afford. I forgot his name at Acne Studios, but thank you for not immediately being racist or something. As for my bank, damn, can someone’s hard work be paying off? Can someone treat themselves now and then?
More recently, my bank has not turned my card off for fear of fraud, but still expressed concern of potential fraud over my recurring purchases at Levain Bakery. If my mama isn’t judging me about all these cookies that I have been ordering, I won’t allow my bank to.
It’s not fraud. A bitch became the cookie monster in this pandemic. If you’ve had those cookies, you’d understand.
I have a knack for missing out on blessings right before me, but I don’t completely resent myself for waiting for a pandemic to devour so many of their cookies. Each time I bite into one of those cookies — the chocolate chip walnut, the oatmeal and raisin, the dark chocolate peanut butter, or that double chocolate one — I can hear the voices of Southern Black folks warning me about catching “the sugar” like “your people.”
And that would be correct. I do need to watch it. But while much of the world has managed to find some sense of stability amid a pandemic by virtue of sacrifice and selflessness, I sadly live in America, led by a…