I'm a huge bargain hunter. Years as a single mom on a journalist's salary made me an expert at chasing good deals.
Yet Black Friday has never been my thing. Growing up in a rough neighborhood in Dallas, I've spent most of my life avoiding drama and tense situations. The over-sensationalized media reports of Black Friday melees were enough to keep the shopping frenzy atop my avoid-at-all-costs list.
Yes, the stories of angry mobs aren't frequent, but the tension and heightened sense of consumer competition that builds up during Black Friday sales are indeed common. For me, no deal--regardless of how good it may be--is worth putting myself through that frenzy.
Yet I did it. Once. And now I can say: Been there, done that. No need to repeat.
My reasons for staying away from Black Friday sales have little to do with making a political statement--though I don't necessarily disapprove of those out there--and everything to do with expecting more of humanity and appreciating my family.
Four years ago, two things convinced me to finally join the Black Friday shoppers club: my goal to find an excellent gift for my husband and a great price on a flat-screen television. My membership would be short-lived.
On that evening I trekked out early enough to my local Target to be among the first 40 shoppers or so in line. Folks around me were friendly and chatty. An aura of camaraderie existed. People even held one another's places in line for the sake of food and bathroom breaks.
But tension began to fill the air as the line grew longer and time got closer to the doors opening. Forty-five minutes before midnight, my once-friendly fellow linesman soon became suspicious of anyone new who approached the line. Fifteen minutes before doors opened, people in front and behind me were shouting at anyone who even came to close to our spots. They warned them that cutting line was forbidden. By then, I could no longer make eye contact with those around me.
This was no longer a camp of new-found mates but a field of soldiers awaiting battle.
When the doors opened at midnight, the crusade was in full force. People pushed and grabbed at sale items as though reaching for bread for their hungered bodies. But it wasn't. It was a gaming system. A slow cooker. A Lalaloopsy doll.
Originally, my list of items included a few kitchen gadgets and a couple of toys. After being pushed inside--and because the television I wanted for my husband was immediately to my left--it was the only item I dared to get. No violence was reported at that store that night, but the scene was tense. People became frenzied as soon as the doors opened. We all were focused on getting the products we had waited in line for--for so long--that we lost sight of being good neighbors.
Though I walked away a champion with a new television in tow, I didn't go back the following year--or any other, for that matter. I was asked why. Perhaps I'm not as competitive as I had believed I was, my sister pondered. The answer is I didn't like how that shopping experience made me feel. I typically get a surge of excitement and pride after I've found an incredible deal. But I didn't get that sensation after buying a television on that one Black Friday.
I would rather be an example for my children than have the steal of the century. So this and every Friday after Thanksgiving, I choose to be nestled on the couch with my family, counting every single one of my blessings and leaving Black Friday shopping to the pros.
------------v------------
Gissela SantaCruz writes for the Austin American-Statesman.
Editorial on 11/26/2015