From Google for "Amy Cooper":
Quote:
Article:
https://www.city-journal.org/amy-coopers-town
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Yesterday, I was beset by diarrhea at the CVS in Copley Square. I put my shopping basket on the floor in the aisle and walked out of the store.
I went to the first place that I thought of, a local business, but it was closed. Then I went to Wendy's.
A Wendy's employee, a Latina woman who seemed a few years older than I am, was walking toward the staircase. Thinking that she might take pity on me, I asked "What's the code to the restroom?" She said "You have to buy something first."
I went to the counter, where a black, male manager was standing next to a Latina cashier. A younger, black, male employee walked up to the manager and asked him a question. Without preamble, I asked the manager "What's the code to the restroom?" Indicating the cashier, he said "She will tell you."
I ordered small fries. I said "What's the code to the restroom?" She wouldn't tell me the code until my card had been approved.
I went upstairs. Someone was in the women's restroom. I waited. I knocked, a polite, little tap. The employee whom I had first encountered when I walked into the restaurant emerged, saw it was me, and whirled around, putting her hand on the restroom door to try to close it before I could get into the bathroom.
Some vestige of humane feeling, or perhaps the recognition that I was possible that I could be a valid customer who had purchased something which I didn't care to bring into the bathroom, moved her out of the way, as I said "I know the code; 9529," and caught the door before it could close. Still standing the hallway, she said "95 what?" "29," I said, my eyes on the stall as I charged into the bathroom.
I did not pick up my fries as I was leaving. I did not attempt to speak to the manager, which there is no question is what I would have done before being profiled all over the United States as a "Karen." I left in a welter of anger and confusion, and fear. I didn't know who I could tell, or if I could tell anyone.