Twelve fifteen Wednesday I walked through the door at International Fish off Riverdale Road and before I could go two steps I was greeted with, “whiting dinner?” Another fifteen or twenty steps and I was at the cash register. I told Ivy you sure know my order. She chuckled and said, “you’re pretty regular.”
I grew up in a Black world. Its different now. I live a more colorful existence. I used to wonder why I get on so well with immigrants. A Vietnamese co-worker told me a couple of years ago before she retired when you are here from another country people can make you feel unwelcome. When you meet someone who treats you well you stick to them.
I guess.
I started to write about K-2 this week. I’ll save that for next week. This go around I need to talk about my friends. Maybe it’s because I have a Starbucks appointment scheduled with my former student and dear friend Natalia two Sundays from now. That’s what she called me in a reference she gave me once-her dear friend. I was proud to know she saw me that way.
I texted her happy birthday in January, and she called me for mine in February. We had a nice chat. We’ve come a long way from the days when we would text for long stretches trying to figure out accounting when she was in my class.
She’s from Colombia and I adore her accent. She spoke very little English when we met. I didn’t know until later. She lived with a family and watched their kids while she was in my class. She is the director of finance for a law firm now and we both hold graduate degrees from Georgia State University.
I get on well with Colombians. I don’t know why. I just do. I have never heard her speak Spanish. I’ll be lucky enough to hear her do so Sunday. It’s because of Guatemalan Jennifer. Or I should spell her name correct. It’s Yennifer.
Yennifer as I mentioned in an earlier post speaks almost know English. So, to communicate I had to take up Spanish. Yennifer told me Thursday I was learning a lot of Spanish. I don’t know about that, but we can at least talk to each other.
Yennifer kept asking me this week if I had gotten vaccinated because the governor gave us a day off to get our shots. About the third time she asked I got her to understand I had been vaccinated a while ago. Then she asked me dos and I replied, “dos.” I realized she was concerned about me. Seventeen years old and she’s concerned about me.
I suppose I make her feel welcome.
I let her and Natalia talk one day on text. My telephone danced with Spanish. Natalia got a kick out of finding out I was learning Spanish. I even mentioned Te gusta de la playa to her because I know she loves the beach. Just showing off a new trick this old dog is learning from an old woman walking around in a child’s body. And if you knew Yennifer you’d understand why I say that.
I learned to talk to someone who doesn’t speak English from one of my Vietnamese students Vi. She moved back home, but while she was here, we used to chat each other up quite a bit. She’d ask about my Mrs. and tell me about her fiancé.
One night I gave her a ride home. She tried to pay me, and I refused the money. She insisted we stop and get some chicken at Church’s. That was the night I found out people from Vietnam like fried chicken. Some things are universal. She bought an eight piece and the Black girl behind the counter got a big kick out of seeing us attack that chicken.
She slathered ketchup all over her pieces and devoured them. Six to be exact and all I could think was how is this little bitty girl eating all this chicken. She liked to talk but silence fell upon the room while she ate. That scene morphed into Jennifer Hon’s first meal with her aptly nicknamed husband Chicken Wing in my book Asia Minor. Jennifer refuses to call him that.
Vi made it easier for me to talk to my student Qing. When we first met, she spoke very little English, and I spoke no Mandarin. Over the three years she was my student her English grew better, and I learned how to say thank you in Mandarin. So of course, Jennifer speaks Cantonese. That is because the Chinese who settled in New Zealand spoke Cantonese.
It’s also a tip of the cap to my student Qi who could speak Mandarin, Cantonese, and English. She made me very inadequate when it came to language. One day in class out of the blue she exclaimed I hate math. Those words would come out of Jennifer Hon’s mouth a few years later.
I told Qing once I liked Panda Express and she told me that wasn’t real Chinese food. For the next year every Friday she would bring me a Chinese dish. I should have told her I ate Panda sooner.
We talked not too long ago, and I told her I was sorry she was no longer my student. She would always be my friend. She called me her forever friend and told me if I came to China, she would host me. If she promises to make me that Tofu dish I got hooked on before the pandemic I may have to make the trip. Besides, I’d like to meet her husband. I already know her son.
I saw a Facebook post by my Indian student Bijal not too long ago. I also consider her a friend. She taught me a great deal about India and Indian culture. Her and her husband migrated to America to provide their son with an opportunity to be his greatest self. They were doing quite well at home, but they are parents who love their child. I feel fortunate to know her.
I like diversity and though I loved growing up in a Black world my immigrants have made my life richer.
A Colombian student stormed into my class years ago visibly upset. Her and I were older than the other students and we used to talk. I asked her what was wrong, and she sputtered, “I was in Riverdale today and a Black guy called me a Mexican! I’m not Mexican, I’m Colombian.” I thought memo to self, do not call her a Mexican.
I told this to another one of my Colombian students Juan a few years later and he told me people want to be recognized for who they are. I’ve never forgotten that. Juan joined the Air Force and became engaged to an American woman. I used to think of him as the Latin Lover because the girls loved Juan. Not only was he good looking he was cool. Cool like my dad and that’s saying something.
A Thai student Napol wrote me a long letter I still treasure. It was a thank you note for being a good teacher. He became one of my best students. He’d hang out in my office all the time.
He was a hacker and he used to tell me some crazy hacking stories. People be very afraid when it comes to your computer files. The last time I talked to him he was on his way to being a CPA.
You notice I don’t call them Asians and Hispanics. Those descriptions are too broad and don’t begin to describe them.
My friend and former student Raima would appreciate me saying that. She’s from Pakistan. She’s Raima above all else. She messaged me not too long ago to apologize for ghosting me because we hadn’t talked in a while. I had to remind her the text line goes both ways.
One day I will convince her you are twenty-one and I want you to live your life. Old teacher knows you care. You take care and I will be okay, and we’ll talk when the time comes. Her and Bijal taught me that the claim Indians and Pakistanis don’t get along is not a nuanced enough description of the two groups. Bijal once left class early to see off a friend from Pakistan who was traveling home to get married. When I asked Raima about the conflict between Indians and Pakistanis she laughed and told me the old people love each other.
And I could go on and on. I could tell you about Papa and how kind he is or Nedge and how much fun he is to know or about so many others like Thuygen(Ti-anne) (I’m looking for you young lady). But I’ll pause here.
I’ve learned to listen to people not experts. Experts pontificate, people live their lives. Experts express pessimism about America’s future. They haven’t met my immigrants. America’s future is in very good hands.
Diversity must begin with individuals. Groups don’t tell you anything.
Seventeen-year-olds do on occasion. I have called Natalia Natalie the whole time we have known each other. I showed Yennifer a picture of her and told her she was my friend. She was excited. I told her this is Natalie. She said Natalia es Colombian and I thought I have been butchering her name ever since we’ve known each other.
I look forward to conversing in Español with my friend. Raima, I hope to see you soon.
People call America a garden salad consisting of many separate ingredients which make up a whole. People call America a quilt, a series of patches bound together by national threads. For me this country is a beautiful, flavorful stew. You throw in the ingredients and over time they blend into a sum greater than its cultural flavorings. And after sitting in the boil if you remove an ingredient and taste it you note the ingredient no longer tastes like its old self. It tastes like our future. And what a magnificent future it is.
Last weekend Saint Peter sat at the pearly gates fighting off a nod as he watched the new faces parade by. Suddenly he heard a whistle. Is that The Farmer in The Dell he said to himself? He smiled and sat straight up. He wanted to jump for joy.
Omar coming!
Rest in peace my brother Michael K. Williams. The good lord must have needed some good entertainment.