You Are in America Now

“Seven fifty is your change. Thank you, ma’am.” The cashier says in a slightly bored tone, dropping the change into my palm. I grab the pack of beef jerky and turn to leave the convenience store, but a sign catches my eye and I pause. You are in America now. Speak English it reads. Above the words is a picture of Old Glory waving proudly. For an instant I imagine my friend Elisabet reading the sign. She has been here for six years and still struggles to understand the simplest English. She tries -- she tries hard, but almost all of the people she knows are Salvadorian like her, so she has little chance to practice. I wish I could say in a near-quote of Charles Dickens: Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you know who the Hispanics are and where they are.

I’m not Hispanic. But sometimes I feel like I am. I work in a Hispanic restaurant, eat their food, and speak Spanish all day, four days a week. I don’t know how many times the people there have asked me in Spanish where I’m from; I guess they can’t pinpoint my accent. “I’m American.” I tell them in Spanish, “Born in Texas.”

They look at me in surprise, “But your parents are from Mexico or Honduras or something, right?”

“No, they are from here in Arkansas.”

“What? You mean they’re white?”

“Well… Yeah.” I say, not exactly sure of the term.

“How did you learn Spanish?”

“I studied it from books, from a teacher, and over the internet.”

It never fails to completely blow them away that I learned Spanish so well, even though I technically have no connection with anyone or anything south of the border. One question is always in their faces, though they rarely ask it: “Why did you care enough to learn good Spanish?”

In their minds white people in Arkansas are the ones who put up signs that say You are in America now. Speak English. White people are the policemen who don’t care enough to work bilingually, the nurse who has to communicate through the six year old, and the teacher who can’t tell them about their child’s education needs. But, the ones who have been to the restaurant several times and watched me, sometimes comment about something else. “You always start in Spanish, even if the person is very likely to know English as well as Spanish. If English is the language you are fluent in, why don’t you speak that?”

I usually just shrug and say, “I like Spanish.” But there is a whole lot more to my reason than that. I do it because I watch the people that come in. I see their homesickness for El Salvador or Mexico or Honduras or wherever. I watch them run a finger over the map of Central America, buy a calling card and call family back home, stare longingly at the Salvadorian Flag on the wall. I hear them talking quietly in Spanish about Abuelita back home who made wonderful Atol de Elote and Tio Carlos that raised the tallest Maiz. How could I mess that up by making them speak English to me? I’d rather struggle in Spanish than make them struggle in English in the one oasis they have of home. Everyone has a right to create a piece of home. I used to frequent American Restaurants overseas, now I watch the Salvadorians frequent their Salvadorian Restaurant here. It’s a piece of home that connects them with the family they left behind.

Besides, shouldn’t we be telling them You are in America now, so feel free to speak any language you want? After all, most of my ancestors were immigrants. We can’t turn around and say “Well, my great-grandparents were fine if they wanted to speak German, but you and your Spanish can take a hike back to Mexico.” That would be completely dumb.

I love the people who come into the restaurant. I love it when they think I’m one of them. I love it when they know I’m not Hispanic and still include me as part of the happy group. I love hearing tales of El Salvador and the life they hope to make here. I mourn with them when they tell me of family they left behind, friends that were deported, relatives caught in gang life, or neighbors who are mistreated at work. So, convenience store owner, try learning Spanish – then you’ll see America.

Ulma-aeyo

“Ulma-aeyo? (How much is this?)” I ask, holding up a carrot.

“Ee Chun.” The old woman answers.

That is more expensive than the other venders’ prices, so I lay it back down and straighten up. This is Garak Market: a vast sprawling open air food market with vender after vender selling everything from apples to squid to barley to spinach. Each seller sits with their wares spread on the ground before them and hawks them loudly as trucks rumble by and the buyers straggle from one awning to the next. I take in the scene for an instant, but in my mind’s eye I am no longer in Seoul. The buildings grow poorer, the street turns to dirt, the chatter around me blurs into Spanish. In front of me I see a ragged boy with tousled, dark hair looking longingly at the fruit spread out on the sidewalk. “¿Tienes hambre? (Are you hungry?)” I ask him.

“Sí, Señorita.” He answers.

In my imagination, I turn to the vender and buy him something to eat. He smiles and thanks me for his new wealth. “Odiae-gayo?” The venders around me call the greeting in Korean, trying to get my attention. Once again the street is paved and the venders are oriental. The child has vanished.

“Martha, come on, let’s go.” Mommy tugs on my sleeve and we move on. “What were you thinking about?” She asks as we make our way past the grain section to the green veggies.

What was I thinking about? How can I explain that? “Nothing.” I answer.

I’ve always had a vivid imagination, maybe too vivid. I can really create a scene so real that I almost live in a different world sometimes. I feel as if I’ve really walked the streets of Chicago, wandered in the slums of India, lived in Morocco, visited Brazil, and (most recently) been to Colombia when in reality, I’ve only imagined it. Why these certain places? Street children. Los niños de las calles. Since I was a little girl of five or six I’ve dreamed of working with street kids. The country I’m thinking of has changed, the age of the children has shifted over the years, but the focus remains the same. For years I’ve imagined the city streets, thought up plans for starting farms for them to live on, organized feeding programs in my mind, and talked to imaginary children. “I’m going to start an orphanage” I remember telling people when I was five. “It’ll be nice orphanage with lots of games. I’ll teach them to read and all about the Bible.”

Now that I am almost ready to go out on my own, the dream has grown stronger than ever. The children of the street are calling to me. But here I am in Korea. Do I wish Korea had street kids? No of course not. But I know that somewhere there are orphans running the streets and they need someone to come and help them. How I wish I were there! Now, I bide my time and create dream scenes as I walk the streets of Seoul, but someday the dreams will be real. Someday I’ll get my hands into the work that God has raised me up for and called me to.

In a Patriotic Moment...

I sighed in frustration and banged my hand on the table, making all the dishes jump. “If she wanted Koreans, she shouldn’t have hired Americans!”

One of the most frustrating things in the world is to have someone expect you to switch cultures at the drop of a hat. “You are not in America. You must act in Korean way now.” She had said. Did she realize everything that meant?

But it made me wonder, what was it that she wanted? What exactly was this stuff in my brain that she wanted me to drop – this thing called culture? I’ve always admired Patriotism and loved the stories of the founding fathers of our country. But there is more to it. What are the values of America that I miss when I’m elsewhere? Here is the list that I’ve compiled:

1. Independence. I know it sounds like quoting the party line, but it isn’t. How many times have I said “I’d rather do it myself or not at all”? If I’m making food, I can add the salt myself. If I’m drawing a picture, you can keep your pencil to yourself. If I’m writing, you can hold your comments till I’m ready for them. We take pride in work we’ve done on our own. On standing alone. On holding our own separate view. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinions.” Have you ever thought about what a beautiful and very American statement that is? But I am crossing into the next section.

2. Individuality. “We hold these truths to be self evident: That every man is created equal and endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights. Among these are: Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” These are words that our country is built on. Surely you have the words “Every child deserves a family.” Do you realize that not every country thinks that way? That in South America, street kids are routinely shot because they are a nuisance? People are always saying “Look at abortion! We are loosing our sanctity of the individual.” But do you realize that in Korea, abortion isn’t an issue? It’s an accepted fact! I remember well that when we were in China, there were two mining accidents: One in the US and one in China. In China there were two hundred minors killed. A few weeks later, the mine was reopened for work. Minors are disposable – it’s better to sacrifice them for the sake of quick progress than impose safety rules. In America, there were thirteen minors trapped underground. There was a humungous effort to dig down and send in a rescue. Everyone held their breath as they waited to hear if they were dead or alive. In the end, twelve were dead and one was alive. BUT, it was worth all the effort for the one life saved. I remember the wondering look on the Chinese students’ faces and they tried to comprehend the value Americans put on that one life. In Korea, handicaps are an embarrassment. If you are blind they lock you away where no one has to see you. In America, we make special arrangements in concerts, churches, departments stores, etc. for the visually impaired.

3. The right to speak out. “The tallest tree in the forest is the first to be blown down.” It’s an old Chinese proverb and explains a lot of their culture. Go with the flow and don’t rock the boat or you’re a goner. Not so in America. “It’s your own country so change it!” is the rule of the day. People always say, “Our country has SO many problems that other countries don’t have.” I beg to differ. Yes, we have many problems. But other countries have them too. Why don’t you hear about them? Cause they don’t air their dirty laundry to the world like we do. And why not? Because they aren’t in a constant scramble to fix everything like we are. Everyone in America has an opinion and they are all yelling at the government and each other to fix this or that or the other. But, in the end there IS something done (usually). In the end, the mess is mostly sorted out and everyone ends up if not happy – appeased. Then we are off to the next rough spot. A few days ago I was reading an article that said, “It is time that America quit ignoring and glossing over its social problems.” That made me laugh. When was the last time you said to someone “What is the answer to gang violence?” or “What is your opinion on the Hispanic immigration?” and they just answered you “I have no opinion.” Or “That’s not really an issue.”? If something is not really being resolved, it more likely to be a problem of too many cooks spoiling the broth than a problem of neglect. In America, everyone is expected to think for themselves and come up with their own opinions on every issue. Everyone is expected to have their own plan of action to solve the world’s problems – whether the plan will work or not is the main issue.

America has problems. I know that. But I love my country for trying to fix the problems, for talking everything out in the open, for valuing each person, for putting personal character ahead of education level or social status. I am American. I am who I am, so help me God. Nothing is going to turn me Korean or Chinese or any other culture.

The White Flower

Night phone calls are rarely good news, and tonight was no exception. “Martha, you know the corner of Bushwick and Eighth?”

“Uh,” I tried to wake my mind into map gear, “Yeah.”

“The gangs have been fighting over it again. Esmeralda was walking home from the bus stop and – and she was hit by a stray bullet.”

I was suddenly wide awake, “What? Is she – is she dead?”

“Her heart stopped about an hour ago at the ER. They’ve already taken her to the funeral home. Her mom isn’t doing well, can you go see her?”

“Of course.”

I hung up and rolled over to look at the clock. It was three in the morning. I would have to wait for daylight to come before I could leave. In Bushwick, you don’t leave your house before the sun comes over the horizon unless you have armed bodyguards along.

I had taken Esmeralda on my Sunday School Bus Route a year ago. Every week on Saturdays she had waited, dancing with excitement, with three other kids for my ancient bus to groan around the corner and stop with the brakes screeching loud enough to be heard in Manhattan. She would jump aboard with a cheerful smile and “Hi Miss Martha!” and give me quick kiss before running to her seat near the back. Every Friday, I would climb the broken stairs to her tenement house on the fourth floor and visit her home and pray with her and her family. Now she was gone, leaving a grieving family and a hole in my heart.

The grey walls of the apartment building rose in front of me that morning, meeting the grey autumn sky ten stories above me. Graffiti of all shades covered the walls for about twenty feet, and then tapered off. I pushed open the swinging door and entered the dark hallway, the foul odor of urine making my nose smart. “SOLID” proclaimed the wall in front of me in stylized script— meaningless to the outsiders, to the residents it clearly proclaimed the presence of the Four Corner Hustler Gang. Over it, the picture of a bunny and the words “The Dark Side” showed the presence of the rival Gangster Two-Six. So those were the two who had been fighting, I thought as I picked my way over a shockingly thin man strung out on Meth. Nine flights up, I came to the fourth floor and knocked on the door to the right. It opened a crack and a frightened face peered out, then it swung wide and I saw Esmeralda’s mother. Her eyes were red-rimmed and empty. I stepped in and shut the door behind me. “I heard early this morning.”

The windows were grey with soot and the once-white walls were streaked with water stains. I took the woman in front of me into my arms as she burst into tears again. “It’s so senseless!” She wailed. “Where is God in this?”

A tear rolled down my cheek, “Talk to us, God.” I said softly. “What’s on your mind? Was this all in your plan?” My eye fell on a cup of dirt on the windowsill. A wilted flower hung limply over the side, trailing on the gray, chipped concrete.

Then, a picture rose in my mind of Esmeralda as I had seen her three weeks before. Sunlight struggled through the grimy windowpane and lightly touched her impish grin as she stood with her elbows leaning on the counter. The cup of dirt in her hands held a living plant then. “The seed package said the flowers would be red. Look, this bud is starting to open.”

“It looks to me like they’re going to be white. I wonder why.” I answered absently.

“Yeah, I asked God about that.”

This was getting interesting, “Yeah? Did he answer you?”

Esmeralda smiled and looked out the window thoughtfully. “Because, it’s the color of heaven. White – all clean, not like everything around here.”

I leaned down to look her in the eye, “Why did he change the flower to the color of heaven do you think?”

“Because,” She answered, her face brightening with another smile, “I’m going there soon. Ain’t always gonna live in the ghetto you know, it’s a whole lot better place there.” She set the flower in front of the glass where the light was brightest. The pure white showed up starkly against the grime of the dark world around it.