Today I saw a chicken cross the road, and I couldn't think of the punch line. Well, it was a rooster to be exact and the hen was close behind him. Two peas in a pod. Two birds of a feather? Two phrases too cliche.
There is nothing cliche about my current situation. Everything is new and strange and completely unexpected. Simple tasks like getting groceries or opening a can of tomatoes can present extreme challenges when you are a stranger in a foreign land.
Walking to De Uno (the cheaper grocery store in town) requires fifteen minutes of relentless trekking. The roads are steep and curvy. I think to myself that a walking stick may actually be appropriate in this situation. My knees are creaky and stiff at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. I am getting lost at each possible turn and end finally decide to ask for help.
I approach a lady who is distinguished, and polished. She is probably around sixty years old with ironed pants and pearl earrings; a safe choice. As I near her, she averts my eyes and picks up her pace.
"Disculpe me, por favor," I start. She looks at me and looks away, her pace unwaning. Perhaps she didn't hear me, I think.
"Disculpe me," I try again. This time she slows, looks me square in the eyes, pinches her lips together tightly and wags one finger disapprovingly in my direction. She steps widely across the sidewalk to avoid being close as she passes.
I am aghast. My appearance is clean - even conservative - and my question was asked with politeness and respect. I realize... I have just experienced my first Gringo Racist. The air in my lungs is temporarily unavailable. I take it personally. It is similar to the feeling I had three summers ago in a New York Subway train when a group of men surrounded me with insults like "Stupid, white bitch," and "Why you ignoring me, white cunt? You think you're better than me? Is it cuz I'm black?"
Racism is a tricky thing. I understand my experiences with direct racism are limited. I am one of the lucky ones. I grew up in a middle-class community in Middle America as a white girl. I had the whole world in the palm of my hands. I grew up in America, for God's sake: Land of the Free. But for so many people, it isn't free at all.
Perhaps those men threatened me simply because they had been subject to racism for so long, they thought it natural to lash out at my pale appearance. Perhaps they had been pummeled by white NYPD officers for crossing the street too close to a pretty little white girl who grew up in Middle America. Is that freedom?
To resume my story about finding the grocery store - I quickly recover my shock and approach a young Colombian couple. They are holding hands and walking slowly. They do not avoid me, and smile when I say "Disculpe me, por favor". In my limited Spanish, I explain that I am looking for a grocery store called De Uno. "Conoces?" The girl shakes her head "yes" and then tells me her boyfriend will be glad to accompany me. This young man then proceeds to walk ten more minutes up and down steep mountainside roads in the opposite direction of his house just to show me the location of this grocery store.
Kindness prevails. I just hope the balance will always stay in the favor of the open-hearted.
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