"You should speak in English!" - a Fairfax moment retrospective
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Just last night I was reliving a Fairfax Moment. And I decided to share it with the craigslist community; wondering, perhaps, if the involved parties that set the stage so nicely for this what-are-the-odds-made-for-TV-movie Fairfax moment might want to relive it with me.
For those who don't know what a Fairfax Moment is, I can only assume that you have not been to Fairfax, land of the stoned rich hippiecrit, the organized and outfitted coffee-swilling bicycler, and the faux-homeless skateboard-and-unneutered-pit-bull-mix-toting teen.
Fairfax moments are much like Bolinas moments. Without the ocean.
In any case, I was somewhat new to Fairfax. I was just getting accustomed to unsolicited sidewalk editorials from eyebrow-raising citizens on their way to climb into an SUV with a “Keep Tahoe Blue” sticker on the back. I was also getting a feel for the crusty underbelly of Fairfax; my sleepy street had welcomed an actual police action, and a growing collection of fourth-hand furniture would have seemed to indicate that my neighbors were setting up an outdoor living room on their carport.
But I digress.
I innocently walked into Albertson’s one fine sunny Saturday. Passing up delectable offerings like vegan drummettes and hemp beer, I filled my basket and filed into a mercifully short checkout line just ahead of three other people who popped in behind me.
There was in fact only one person in front of me.
This woman looked like your average white suburban 50-something Marin housewife. Small waistline, large wedding ring.
Our checker was a nice young girl of some sort of Latin American descent.
As this girl started sliding groceries across the laser-beam-pricing-glass-thingie, the sometime-bagger general “We need cleanup on aisle 5!” respondent guy was strolling by. He’s also Hispanic/Latin American/Whatever PC term works for you.
So as he goes by, our checker – in Spanish – asks him to please go into the parking lot and collect shopping carts. I should probably note here that I’m your standard 30-ish white girl who probably looks like most other 30-ish Marin white girls. And I happen to speak fluent Spanish.
So the manager (older crusty white lady who’s probably drank a good many Budweisers in her day) comes over right as Checkout Girl is asking Cleanup on Aisle 5 Guy to go collect the carts. Because Lord knows that we Americans are far too lazy to walk our carts aaaaallllllll the way back to the cart receptacle. We’d rather block up a whole parking space or spend our time trying to hook it on a curb than walk our well-fed asses 50 feet back to the door we just exited.
But I digress again.
OK, so here’s where we are:
....................................O Aisle 5 Guy (on his way out the door)
.................Checkout Girl O .....O Manager
--------------------------------------
..........O O O ........O ........O
.....Shoppers 1-3 .......Me .....Marin Housewife
So Marin Housewife looks at Checkout Girl and loudly, for everyone to take full notice of her, says, “You know, you should speak in English!”
Checkout Girl looked pretty surprised. So did Crusty Manager. Nobody said anything. Shoppers 1-3 and I kind of looked at each other like – “Did she just say that?”
Marin Housewife had apparently expected a grander reaction to her mandate. So she went on, looking at Crusty Manager and saying, “You know, we speak English in this country! She should be speaking in English, not that other language!”
She looked at Checkout Girl again and repeated herself. “You should really just speak in English!” And she kind of shook her head in exasperation and said “Don’t you think?” to the air, and then – not getting a response staring wildly into space – she turned and looked me directly in the eye and says, “Don’t you think?”
Pressed for an answer, I gave her one:
“Es que... No me importa para nada.”*
All eyes turned my way in disbelief. Marin Housewife looked thunderstruck. Checkout Girl and Crusty Manager gaped at me. Shoppers 1-3 giggled.
I smiled at Checkout Girl, who seemed to be trying very very hard not to burst into uproarious laughter in any language. She finished checking out Marin Housewife, who had been reduced to muttering to herself. I could only catch little snatches of “Well I never” and other indignant expletives.
As Marin Housewife was collecting her bags, Crusty Manager looked at Checkout Girl and patted her on the arm and said, “You can speak in any language you want as long as the person you’re talking to understands you.”
So Checkout Girl turned to me and checked me out in Spanish.
Marin Housewife pretended not to notice.
It was a true Fairfax moment.
*Translation: It’s that… it doesn’t matter to me at all.