Target complied in advance. They fucked around and are finding out. Unfortunately for them, it’s easier to boycott than to overthrow the government. I have no idea how — realistically, as an individual saddled with the day-to-day grind and shock doctrine paralysis — to hold our leaders accountable. And so Target, erstwhile friend of progressive values, is an easy Target.
We need to punish them.
We need to punish ourselves — for letting any of this happen, for not doing more.
Talk about fragile middle class white lady tears! 😅
Well, yeah. Let’s talk about it.
Pictured: My kid in his Target shirt, Target shorts, Target undies, Target socks and Target shoes hanging out with the Target dog. It’s his favorite part of every Target run — running away from Mom to find Bullseye.
My feeds are flooded with Target hate, with boycott solidarity, observations of empty parking lots (I’ve seen them, too), exclamations of “It’s working!” and the earnest virtual signaling of the last date and counting that someone stepped inside the store.
Good for you. That’s great! Hit ‘em in the wallet, tank the stock, make Target bleed.
But it makes me ache.
Can I say that?
I’m embarrassed that this is hard.
Outside of groceries at HEB, until a few months ago I’ve practically been a monoshopper, and frankly, it’s discombobulating. My consumer identity is Target — and “consumer identity” popped into my head as a thing ‘cause jeez, “identity” needs a qualifier, right? I am more than a Target shopper. I’m a, well, I don’t know, I’m a mom, too, Alicing down a spiral of who even am I, when life has changed so drastically in the past 5 years.
I don’t really do anything anymore. I work from home and clean the house and mind the child. I arrange low-key adventurous outings to spark my kid’s curiosity and to pass the time. My one arguable hobby is constrained by multitasking: when I grocery shop, make dinner, do the dishes, drive to pre-K pickup, vacuum, sweep, straighten, scoop the yard poop, do the laundry, and try to keep in shape so I can escape Nazis, I listen to audiobooks about murder.
Friends… I fuckin’ like going to Target. Less than 5 minutes away, it’s a get-out-of-the-house refuge. My mom would call it window shopping. I just like to wander. I mostly buy essentials. Pantry basics. Household consumables. Cleaning supplies, toilet paper, soap and shampoo. Toothpaste, mouthwash, detergent. All the diapers back in the day, the butt wipes and supplemental formula.
Just look at all my Target shit.
Sure, occasionally, I get something just for me, treat-yo-self small, and I give that purchase power. A cheery bathroom rug I still love. A $5 soap dispenser to elevate my sink.
Every pair of shoes my kid has owned. Almost all of his clothes. His bedding, so many of his toys. His childhood is surrounded by Pillowfort and his friends Cat & Jack.
The dragon sheets, the reading lamp, the sherpa reading pillow, the pillow pillow, the “Sleep Under the Stars” pendant, the sleeping bag, the bear, Sumo CP and floppy CP — one of four of its kind that has dutifully served as his lovey since birth.
Dozens of pajamas, all the underwear ever, polos and tees and shorts and hoodies, hard pants and soft pants, swim towels and nap blankets. Some of the below are hand-me-downs. Not pictured is the stuff in the laundry and the bags and bags of outgrown things we’ve already given away.
Oh wait, and here’s the Target clothes he hasn’t moved into yet, more hand-me-downs and the new still tagged, snagged from off-season clearance. $4 medium-sized hoodies identical to his in-circulation x-small-sized hoodies, pajama pants, shorts, neon leopard print swim trunks, a sweater for being fancy.
Shark rug! perfectly snug in this weirdo space between the toilet and tub.
This tent we call his “calm tunnel” that’s mostly stuffed animal storage these days, the blackout drapes, and the inflatable astronaut still going strong with mine own life’s breath from his first birthday over four years ago.
This organization shelving unit, bins galore, toys, books, games. The kitchen timer to countdown YouTube and timeouts. Not pictured: More kid stuff I didn’t track down. Double-pictured: Fox backpack, you adorable sneak.
Oh, and the art supplies, markers and crayons and colored pencils, stocked up during the school supply sales.
And then more bedding — my pillow, our sheets, the warm sheets, the spare sheets, the throwback chenille bedspread that reminds me of my grandma.
Next up, my clothes, jeez, does it end?
No.
It doesn’t.
Ope, the other bathroom. Not pictured: All the bath towels and washcloths. Pictured: doppelmeg and the side of the Up&Up tissue box I puttied to the wall to remind my son he is a shining star when he brushes his teeth with his Target toothbrush from his Target shark oral-care caddy.
Not pictured: Halloween.
Pictured: Christmas tree skirt, Christmas wrapping paper, toddler Cat & Jack slippers.
Not pictured: The rest of Christmas oh my god you guys Target Christmas.
Several years running I’ve bought — for myself — $500 gift cards, the max amount allowed, during their annual 10% off sale, for a free $50 of more Target shit. From the latest round, I have $108 left. I have no problem with using it, I already paid for it. I even crossed the line, broke the boycott for my favorite Target hack of all time, discount sunscreen. We go through it like gangbusters. You know how expensive that crap is? Do y’all even Texas?
Here’s $92 of sunblock for $27. It should last us through the summer.
I don’t know what happens when the gift card money runs out — if I’ll shop there or not. If it would make a difference to them. If it would make a difference to me if they try an about face oh wait, we actually do care about black and brown people, gay people trans people disabled people women people to reflect and respect actual America.
I don’t want to give in — I don’t want to be a hypocrite — but writing this and reading it, how do I feel so empty and so full of shit? not so much split as funhouse doubled. There’s the me who has to keep keeping — working, parenting, slogging, planning — and the me who isn’t who I thought I’d be.
None of this is about buying things. Having things. Expressing myself through things or me through my child and his c u t e s h i t t h i n g s, it isn’t even about escape — windowshop wander daydream longing, aspiring to a lifestyle I more or less already have.
I am the breadwinner.
I am the wife and the mother.
The linchpin that holds us together.
The gravity that keeps us on the ground.
This is about spending the money I earn to take care of my family.
Shopping at Target is psychological safety. It’s Minneapolis roots and economical decision-making, scoping out deals and feeling good — smart, practical, un peu à la mode, in my own generally anti-consumerist, humdrum powermode superwoman way — about homemaking.
Is that gross? I literally don’t know! Adulting is a slippery slope. Nice try, half-life anti-establishment trope, I am pretty damn basic, but yeah — I feel beaten down. I feel betrayed. Like I can’t have nice things. And I don’t mean “nice Target things,” I mean a goddamn break. Late-stage capitalism, rise of fascism, I want something to be easy. That cheery bathroom rug to not be pulled out from under me.
Damn it, Target.
I am your target market, and you had me. A lifespan of shopping. You made me in your image. Then you broke me.
And I know, I know. If this is my hard part, I am pathetic, I am privileged beyond belief. Unlike 62,000+ and counting federal workers, I still have my job. I don’t fear deportation as these United States downsizes humanity. Cuts the fat on empathy. I am too old to breed.
But it’s easier to write about my Target shit and half-heartedachingly boycott a business than to dismantle the darker feelings — to do real grieving for the erasure of actual (non-consumer) identities, outrageous firings, blatant kidnappings, dangerous capitulations, decapitated kids.
Defending women.
Protecting children.
Government efficiency.
We are all made redundant by so much doublespeak.
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