We’re in America
Twenty or so years ago, our old fire station was converted into a diner. Twenty or so years ago, they replaced towering red trucks for booths with sticky seats that cling onto every piece, every wrinkle, every fold of your clothes. The lighting is dim —not for decoration— but because they have yet to replace the fixtures from twenty or so years ago. Most bulbs —if they aren’t dead— flicker over and over. As if they aren’t ready to die, but aren’t strong enough to go on. Over and over. Over and over.
I take a seat with my Abuelita. It’s the first time she’s been out in months —other than iglesia and her knitting group. She’s traded her chancletas for bulky, black slip-on flats; the only comfortable and acceptable shoes —in her opinion.
The cushions have been ripped, patched with duct tape, ripped again, and patched with more duct tape. Ripped and patched. Ripped and patched. Even with two to three layers of duct tape, a vast amount of stuffing managed to escape. It lays there untouched, unbothered, but mostly, unwanted.
The waitress comes decked up in a fresh new coat of hairspray and a navy blue blouse with one too many buttons undone. She’s chewing —well popping— the gum from one side of her mouth to the other. One side to the other. Sinking her teeth in the now insipid cherry gum from one side of her mouth to the other.
“Abuelita”, I say. “Qué quieres comer?
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse me?”
I look over. The waitress, Britani, is glaring at us as if I insulted her. As if I told her that hairspray isn’t perfume. As if I told her that my blood boils every time she chews —well, pops— the cherry gum from one side of her mouth to the other.
Her face is contorted and twisted. Her eyebrows are shriveled inward and she looks like she accidentally took a bite of a lemon —a giant bite of a lemon. Her lips are pursed and her nose scrunched like she finally smelled that disgusting perfume —I mean hairspray.
“You are making me, and I assume all the other guests, uncomfortable. I suggest you stop speaking whatever language that is and behave like the rest of us.”
Now it’s my turn to say, “Excuse me?”
“I said, speak English, we’re in America.”
And with that, she turns around and leaves, but the stench of her hairspray remains.
The walls squeeze me into a corner. The leather-covered seats somehow get stickier. The couple next to me are inhaling their fries, but I can barely breathe.
Should I yell? Should I scream? Should I shout that there is no official language for the United States of America? Or should I walk away? Is it cowardice if I walk away?
Should I tell her that my Abuela, born and raised in Argentina, crossed the US-Mexican border while pregnant with my Mamá? Should I tell her that my Abuela, full of hopes and dreams for the so-called “promised land”, suffered tragedies no human being could imagine, could endure, could bear? Should I tell her that the day she crossed the border with my Mamá and my Abuelo, the coyote leading them gunned them down, stole their money, and left them there to die? Should I tell her that only my Abuela and my Mamá survived? Should I tell her that my Abuela, still mourning her dead husband, gave birth to the second-strongest woman in the world? And that that woman gave birth to the third-strongest?
Should I yell? Should I scream? Should I shout that my Abuela was born in the Americas, only the wrong America? Or should I just say nothing at all?
The trouble is not that we can’t speak English. It is not that we are ignorant or unpatriotic. The trouble is that we are expected to speak a foreign language, expected to conform, expected to be like everybody else in their two-story suburban house with a golden retriever and two beautiful, athletic children. The trouble is that we are not like everybody else, but we are smart, are patriotic, and are foreign-speaking immigrants. You can speak English, but we will not.
Britani trudges over like sand has filled her shoes, her pockets, and every crevice of her navy blue blouse. Her eyebrows are still shriveled. Her lips are still pursed. Her nose is still scrunched. She presses the bill face down on the table. And with that, she turns around and leaves, but the stench of her hairspray remains.
