Dyeing Easter Potatoes and Screaming Fathers

This is America Now

What’s Spinning Around in My Head Today

The tension in the air is palpable, each heartbeat echoing like a countdown. I’m at my local grocery store, watching it unfold.

As customers approach the register, their fingers hover over the card reader, a moment of trepidation hanging between desire and dread. The whispers of disbelief as the total flashes on the screen betray their inner turmoil; they sift through their choices, reluctantly asking to return a few items to the shelf as if each decision carries the weight of the world. Should they choose milk or bread? Should they opt for meat or vegetables? What can they do without? Frustration and guilt intertwine, casting shadows over what once felt like simple purchases.

It’s a haunting observation, one that lingers in my mind and stirs a restless empathy within me. This is not solely a matter of food. It’s about survival.

Why It’s Got Me Stuck

The other day, I was getting my car serviced. While scrolling through my phone, I found myself half-listening to three men in the waiting room discussing Easter.

One of them let out a dry, bitter chuckle. “Well, the kids will be dyeing Easter potatoes this year since we can’t afford eggs.”

Laughter. A joke. But no one looked like they actually thought it was funny.

I felt it settle deep in my stomach—that slow, creeping realization that this isn’t just a rough patch. This is different. Something fundamental is shifting. Things aren’t just hard. They’re breaking.

On my way home, I stop at the grocery store.

As I stand in line, I feel my pulse quicken with each beep of the scanner, the total increasing steadily. Then—screaming.

A sharp, guttural sound slices through the air, snapping me out of my own anxious spiral. Everything stops. The usual hum of checkout lines, small talk, and rustling bags has disappeared.

My head jerks toward the sound. My mind scrambles. What could possibly cause someone to lose their composure in the middle of a grocery store?

At another register, a man is losing his mind.

His voice shook with fury. His hands trembled as he yanked bills from his wallet. “How the hell am I supposed to afford this?” His face flushed, veins bursting, rage erupting in all directions—not about the clerk, the store, or even the prices.

This was desperation.

And he wouldn’t stop. The entire store had gone stiff, frozen in that awful, electric silence that happens when a situation turns. Customers glanced at each other, at the floor, at the ceiling—anywhere but at him. The cashier didn’t speak, just stood there, looking like she wanted to disappear.

A manager rushed over, an assistant close behind. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw their hands—open, calm, low to the ground, like they were trying not to startle a cornered animal.

Still, he kept screaming.

They had to escort him out; he was still yelling and shaking. I finished paying, grabbed my bags, and walked to my car. And as I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw him in the distance—still screaming as he turned to his wife, fury pulsing through him. His body was rigid, hands slicing through the air, face twisted with frustration so sharp it cut through the space between them. I couldn’t hear a word, but I didn’t need to.

His wife stood small beneath the weight of his anger, shoulders drawn in, absorbing every unspoken accusation. Their young children stood frozen—wide-eyed, silent, trapped in a moment they didn’t understand but would never forget.

He was still unraveling, still drowning in the same helplessness that made him explode inside. And all I could do was watch as I slowly drove out of the lot.

I sat at the stop sign, gripping my wheel so tight my knuckles turned white, thinking: this isn’t just about groceries. This is about people coming apart.

How the H*ll Did We Get Here?

People keep saying, “It’s always been like this.”

No. It hasn’t.

This is humiliation at checkout, eyes down, pretending it doesn’t sting as you quietly put food back.
This is forcing a laugh to cover the shame of admitting you can’t afford something that used to be a given.
This is standing in an aisle, pulse racing, running numbers in your head, deciding what your family can live without.
This is swiping your card, holding your breath, praying it goes through.

This isn’t just inflation. This is people unraveling.

Feeding your family should be a certainty, not a calculated decision. But now? Survival mode is the new normal.

Every visit to the store serves as a constant reminder of the fragility of security.

And as I walk out with just the essentials—the bare minimum to get by—I can’t stop wondering:

How many others left with less than they needed?

How many walked out with nothing at all?

What About You?

Have you had one of those “holy sh*t, I can’t afford this” moments lately? What was it? What did you do?

I want to hear it. If nothing else, we're in this together.