It happened, again.
This time, in the grocery line.
She’d grabbed a couple early evening, post Sunday matinee snacks and taken her place behind those who appeared to have the least number of items. Two guys, knit capped, the one slightly bearded, directly ahead of her were perusing the tabloid mags on the rack just behind them. As one commented to the other, she noted the latest TIME special edition feature: “The Criminal Mind.”
Feeling a tad grandiose, she pointed to its title and ventured some crack about Italians all being corrupt. As expected, they turned to look at her. Tossing olive skinned, greying brown hair to one side, she demured:
“Well, not all of them.”
Her own father, second generation Napolitan/Sicilian blend, had always maintained a flawless public testimony – or, so she’d always thought.
The more they chatted, the more gradually she noticed the telltale accent of a Latino coming from the more talkative of the two. And so, typically, she asked him.
“You Mexican?”
Reaching up to insert his card into the reader, he answered. “Yep.”
Then, she did what she too often did. She asked the next question. And, she did it because she was born in 1957, raised in this town, and had grown to expect that asking would be acceptable. She said:
” You know Julio…Julio Reyes?”
Smiling, he said: “No….”
“Owns Latinos — the restaurant??”
Genuine surprise. She thought everybody knew Julio. Or, at least, everybody who enjoyed real Mexican food. Like, Mexicans. Ergo, Julio.
The cashier, tall African American, young, bright eyed….smiled, looked at the two Mexicans.
And, because, even though an aging biddy she was still a quick study, she got it.
And, looking right at him: “Oh, I am SUCH a white girl!”
[ he was laughing, now ]
“I know….”All black people are related!” [ he doubled over ]
“All Mexicans know each other, personally!”……
[ everyone chuckling ]
“All Italians are corrupt…….! “
.
[ silence ]
.
The three men busied themselves. She rearranged her items on the conveyor.
“Well”….. she said, softly, head down……..”my little daddy was a sweetheart”.
She thought, again, about that moment when somebody she knew said he’d been told her dad was The Man. And she felt, again, just how much she did not want to believe it.
The two Mexicans finished their purchase. They all smiled at her transparency. She shimmered.
Her turn, at the register. The young cashier’s presence was too hard to resist. And, so she had to ask the next question, the one she always asked.
“You know, I taught school for twenty five years. Had four thousand students. I still bet you might have been my…..what school did you go to?”
Nope. Didn’t teach there.
“What’s your last name?”
Nope. She’d gone to school with a woman with the name, one not recognized by him. In fact, he scratched the back of his head with one finger, averted his eyes, and mentioned that he was known by another family name. Still, she had to tell him the family names she knew. And, he was already no longer interested.
She felt sorry.
Sorry that she had been born in 1957. Sorry that she’d done the thing, yet again, that would define her forever as the white girl who just had to ask all the questions that used to mean a willingness to generate conversation, create an atmosphere of casual openness and, most of all, express a genuine interest in finding the connections which linked people to one another. In this town, that used to mean not just family, but family origin. The generation which endures dismissal today used to know that people from certain parts of the world always settled in specific neighborhoods, and then stayed there. They all grew to know that these preferred to spend time with one another, largely because they shared their own language and secondly because they knew that staying close would keep everyone accounted for. And, their city was small. Each of these neighborhoods was block to block, side by side. They had Poles, Russians, and Czechs. They had Germans, and Irish. They had Italians, for miles. They had African Americans, who were called Negroes then by those who named everyone. And, they all made their life purpose the sustenance of their people – its customs, its food, its dress, and its family names.
She wondered whether the young men who passed through that grocery line would give any of this another thought. Perhaps their parents would help them understand.
The cashier completed her sale and, as he handed her the receipt she thanked him, by his name. And, he smiled, again – brimming with authenticity, and inner strength. His smile came from deep within his heart and mind. And, his laughter had forgiveness all over it.
She was glad about that.
Because the next time she’d be the white girl, she’d probably do it all again.
.
.
.
.
© 11/18/18 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the white girl, whose name appears above this line. Thanks for your forgiveness and respect.
littlebarefeetblog.com
littlebarefeetblog 
Thoroughly enjoyed this Ruth Ann! 👋🏻❤️
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Wow. Thanks, Jeanne. I’m grateful when anybody reads me. I spend so little time reading anybody else. Perhaps it’s because of a sense of urgency, due to time of life. Being older than many, I might be thinking that energy should be directed toward giving back instead of sharing and developing community. Sometimes it feels too late to do the latter! Thanks, again!
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That was a very pleasing read ! 😀
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oh, MAN – I am so behind, on you. Not literally. Of course. Never want to just graze your stuff, and keep waiting for a good chunk of time which, of course, never comessss………..grrr!! message me a nice long one? not literally, of course??
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Haha, you asked for it now!! ❤ ❤
XX
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UH-OH! ❤
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Deeply insightful and a pleasure to read! Not bad for a white girl……
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LA!! I MISS YOU! what’s up, for the holidays? message, pls, or text ❤ happy birds!
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From the perspective of the one asked that type of question: There are about four questions everyone asks me, which telegraph hostility and ignorance. Those questions tell me that this person has a limited range of conversational skills and is not cultured enough to exercise some restraint. I spent the first 15 minutes at my last seminar for city hall talking about my home country. At the end, a woman comes up to me and asks, “So, may I ask you a question? Where are you from?” Obviously, she already knew the answer but thought it was a good idea to be the 3.5 thousandth person to ask me that same question. Then she ignored the fact that I was working I an advisory role for city hall, something that no expatriate has ever been asked to do. As a woman shouldn’t that be the purpose of approaching me? Keep up the good work? No. she wanted to know all about reggae dancing. Because people from my country don’t have jobs. They dance all day. Fix it, Jesus.
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Well, I hope that you have become convinced that hostility is never my motive. As for being cultured enough to avoid exercising restraint, that is likely my problem in the minds of many. I recall doing a paper on David Hume, when I literally found him in a search for comparative study while fulfilling a graduate requirement to write about Farinelli. It was only then wherein I discovered that there were cultures which trained their young to exercise restraint. Having never been trained to exercise any apart from the usual bodily behaviors which all children are trained to avoid in public I have always been the bell ringer, the one who speaks up against moral offense and outrage (not specific religious belief, mind you, but actions which either openly hurt or clearly marginalize) regardless of the feelings of those in proximity. Perhaps that is considered by many to be evidence of absence of restraint but, I assure you, around here I consider it a moral necessity and will not be ceasing anytime soon.
As for my encounter with the two customers and the cashier, I will have to leave the incident to Providence. Unless I search out the two men, whose names I do not have, I don’t see how I can rectify what I did which may have hurt them. As for the cashier, I was convinced by his actions that he had already considered me either hopelessly uneducable or had chosen to forgive me because he was just that good person. When he mistakenly charged me for the box of what appeared to be candy into which I stored my cards, I forgave him with absolutely no judgment or rancor expressed; rather, I considered the whole error hugely entertaining, as it had happened twice before elsewhere ( race, nationality, and gender of the “offenders” a random mix), and left with no malice in my heart. Does this make me self righteous? Would another alleged white person have judged him with suspicion? My own father’s people regularly endure being judged categorically for their cultural history of mob brutality, and I among them. I, too, endure unacceptable treatment by humans just because I do not resemble them or share their ethnic history. It’s the story of life on this planet, and I don’t expect it to end any time soon. Have you seen the CNN doc series on the Kennedys? I would highly recommend it.
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Thanks for the docuseries recommendation. I will look into it. Always on the lookout for more Kennedy stuff. Back to the topic at hand: It’s hard to understand how these things work unless you have had to endure the indignity of gratuitous staring and suspicious questioning. It’s up to us in the minority to reserve ourselves and be better people. You will never hear about those of us that do. It’s an unseen courtesy; a tax we pay for being allowed to live amongst a majority. We don’t get awards for dignity and courage. But our hardships and scar tissue from these are the glue that holds civilisation in place.
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I hesitate even Liking your comments, because their subject matter is so emotionally difficult. Yes; only in recent years, maybe the last two or three, have I noticed baleful stares from certain ones just because I’ve entered the room whereas, for much of my life, if I presented with a smile, people would perk up. I think military look at me, and are reminded of the “enemy” in Iraq/Afghan…..and, others just categorically decide I’m arabic or some other ethnicity they deem “rejectable.” I don’t resemble the other Italians around here, as my father relocated from Boston when he met my mum. So, believe it or not, I also endure in silence. Yes; holding civilisation together, indeed.
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But — the part about generating convo with questions intended to make connections, that is borne of a sincere desire to do just that.
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I see we understand each other. It is lamentable that people treat us like that. They should stop.
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I love you, Sabiscuit. ❤
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