Some time ago I had an exchange with an older Hispanic woman at the mall. I know that in the post-COVID world that seems like an anachronism but I made a note of it and forgot about it. I rediscovered the note while going through some old drafts and I decided to elaborate on it a bit. That’s enough context I think, so here we go…
I love my mother, I do.
But I know that in just a few years I’m going to reconsider that stance.
That’s because the second I have children she is going to turn into every single cartoonish stereotype of a Hispanic grandmother. Conversational topics 1 through 10 will be about her grandchildren. And I ask you; who wants to be around someone like that? I certainly don’t.
And I know I’ll feel this way because met her future recently.
Just the other day I was at the mall standing in line to get some Philly cheesesteaks at the food court.
And I know what you’re thinking, mall Philly cheesesteak? But honestly, sound dietary decisions are for those who love themselves.
Am I proud of it? – No.
Did I hate myself right after I finished eating? – Probably.
Did I spend half of the following day evacuating my stomach lining? – Certainly.
But goddamn it did I enjoy shoving that early death sentence straight into my face
Anyway, I was standing in line getting excited about my bad decision and in front of me stood this older Hispanic lady with a stroller and wearing a shirt that said “Cliché” – that last part I made up.
So she’s standing there and every now and then she turns around and looks at me.
She does this about three times until she finally says “You’re 5’8”
Not a question, just a blank statement, her face barely changed shape.
As casually as telling me that my shoes were untied – “You’re 5’8”
That’s how she opened that conversation.
This means, that up to that point she was having an exchange with herself and decided to include me half way through it.
“You’re 5’8”
“Yes, and you’re a weirdo, I didn’t spend the last 7 years lying about my height for some old Colombiana to call me out in the middle of the mall. I’m just trying to cover my face in grease and cheese abuela.”
I didn’t actually say that.
So we strike up a conversation about her granddaughter and I put together that she guessed my height because she was concerned that her granddaughter was going to be short.
Still makes no sense why this justified her opener, but fuck it, I was knee deep at this point and she was doing that old Hispanic lady thing where she kept talking even though I was making every conceivable effort to signal that I was zoned out. Plus there was like two more people ahead of us and I had already made it this far; I could taste the cheesesteak and it tasted like clogged arteries.
At this point I was just too committed so I just leaned on the ropes and tried to ride it out.
She then asks me where I’m from and I tell her I’m Cuban. She acted surprised, which I don’t understand because:
- I do not look American
And
2. Anyone with functional ear canals can tell that I’m not from here. I can’t string together two sentences without making it abundantly clear that English is not my first language
She uses this question as a launching point to talk more about her granddaughter, because of course she does. I was her hostage now and I think she could see how desperate I was for cheesesteak.
And this is when she tells me that little Juanita – I don’t actually know if that’s real her name – is, and I quote, “Half Colombian, half Peruvian, half Mexican, and half Caribbean”
Which is bonkers for two reasons:
First, one of those isn’t even a nationality. The Caribbean is a region with 26 countries. That’s like saying you’re half African. You can’t be from half of an entire continent, that’s not how that works.
Second, that’s way too many halves. I don’t know if you were counting, but to summarize, she said her one, singular, grandchild was four halves of a person.
And she said it with conviction, didn’t even stop to consider that “hey, wait a minute, that doesn’t seem to add up.”
But now I think that maybe I’m being an asshole. I’m not contextualizing my experience here. This is a Hispanic grandmother after all. English is probably not her first language and by definition, this is not a sane person. Who am I to expect that I would have a normal human interaction with a person as detached from reality as an abuelita?
For those of you not fortunate enough to have an abuelita, they make them all at the same factory. They call to tell you about the horrifically tragic deaths of young people in car accidents to so you drive safer. They all think the cure to most illnesses can be found in a boiling pot of water, some roots, lime, and a little bit of honey. They are all obsessed with their grandchildren, especially if they’re males. And they all cook like it’s the last item they unlocked in their skill-tree after years of grinding XP.
I know it’s not cool to generalize, but that’s about as accurate as you’re going to get. The point is that I should be grading this person on a curve.
Anyway, the Philly was good.
Lando Writes Sometimes 