2008 Woodie Awards
Little resolutions
Danielle Stillman
Issue date: 8/28/07 Section: Opinion
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I walked into Fiesta with my boyfriend on a muggy Sunday afternoon, on a mission to buy something frozen. He lives in a garage apartment in Second Ward, and, to save money, we have just been running the fan during the day. We had scraped together just enough change to buy some ice cream.
Walking in, I was confronted with fast Latin rhythms over the loudspeaker and food labeled solely in Spanish. We wandered through the aisles, past agave sweeteners and rows of Jarritos drinks. We settled on some Drumstick cones and began the arduous process of waiting for an open lane. After he paid for his items, I stepped in to purchase the Drumsticks. A squat Hispanic woman behind me did not realize I was next and pushed the package to the end of the belt. "Excuse me," I said, with a little too much of an edge in my voice, because I am a natural drama queen. She grimaced and apologized.
I felt awful the whole ride home. Did she think I snapped at her because I felt she was beneath me? Did she lump me in with the same snooty Anglos that she had undoubtedly encountered? I felt both like I belonged and that I was distinctly out of place while trolling the aisles, and it was not an unfamiliar feeling.
As a self-described "red-haired Latina," I have experienced a cultural disconnect all my life. My grandfather was an immigrant from Mexico, who spoke no English when he came to the United States, and was consequently teased, frustrated and forgotten in school. It did not stop him from learning. He worked throughout his early teens to send himself to St. Thomas High School, where he knew he would be able to receive a better education.
As a result of my grandfather's boyhood challenges, my mom's parents did not speak Spanish to her growing up, and all her sisters had French names. When my mother learned that her surname meant "crane" in Spanish, she wished desperately that she had been born with the Anglicization. "Crane" sounded much more elegant to her than an ugly Latin name.
Walking in, I was confronted with fast Latin rhythms over the loudspeaker and food labeled solely in Spanish. We wandered through the aisles, past agave sweeteners and rows of Jarritos drinks. We settled on some Drumstick cones and began the arduous process of waiting for an open lane. After he paid for his items, I stepped in to purchase the Drumsticks. A squat Hispanic woman behind me did not realize I was next and pushed the package to the end of the belt. "Excuse me," I said, with a little too much of an edge in my voice, because I am a natural drama queen. She grimaced and apologized.
I felt awful the whole ride home. Did she think I snapped at her because I felt she was beneath me? Did she lump me in with the same snooty Anglos that she had undoubtedly encountered? I felt both like I belonged and that I was distinctly out of place while trolling the aisles, and it was not an unfamiliar feeling.
As a self-described "red-haired Latina," I have experienced a cultural disconnect all my life. My grandfather was an immigrant from Mexico, who spoke no English when he came to the United States, and was consequently teased, frustrated and forgotten in school. It did not stop him from learning. He worked throughout his early teens to send himself to St. Thomas High School, where he knew he would be able to receive a better education.
As a result of my grandfather's boyhood challenges, my mom's parents did not speak Spanish to her growing up, and all her sisters had French names. When my mother learned that her surname meant "crane" in Spanish, she wished desperately that she had been born with the Anglicization. "Crane" sounded much more elegant to her than an ugly Latin name.