An encounter at the deli

As many days before we stopped at the local deli and got my son a bagel and a juice on the way home from pre-school. In front of us in the line this time stood two young men; they looked like they were in their early twenties. One of them was black and spoke with a heavy Caribbean accent. The other one was Hispanic and spoke regular New York English.

When it was time to pay; the young man with the Caribbean accent came up short. The sandwich was 8.60 and he only had eight dollars.

“I thought it was 7.85,” he said confused.

The lady behind the counter shook her head.

“8.60 with taxes.”

I looked over at his friend; I had to bite my tongue to not blurt out.

“Don’t you have any change?

 I remember when I first came here as an immigrant and I was always confused by the fact that taxes are not included in the price. I don’t know how many times I felt like a fool when I didn’t have enough money.

“I can come back tomorrow with the sixty cents,” he said to the lady behind the counter.

I was looking at her and thinking; just let the poor guy go, but she shook her head and put a hand on the sandwich.

“Ok,” I said then, “I have sixty cents.”

Put a dollar on the counter and waited for the young man to say a loud “thank you!” But the only one that spoke was his friend.

“Thank you for helping out my brother.”

“No problem.”

We got our bagel and left the place and as soon as I stepped out I wondered if I had somehow insulted this young man by paying what he owed. Did I do something wrong? I have on occasion done a few strange things out of pure naivety since I come from a different culture and a different country.

I was raised by two completely different people. My paternal grandparents were poor, hardworking socialists who struggled to survive the Depression in Sweden. Many times the children had only lingonberries and potatoes for dinner. My father clearly remembered when he had to pull of his hat and bow as the teacher, the doctor or the minister walked by. I still have my grandmother’s songbook from “The Women’s Socialist Association” and I do know “The Internationale”. 

Upp till kamp emot kvalen.

Siste striden det är,

ty Internationalen

till alla lycka bär.

Upp till kamp emot kvalen.

Sista striden det är,

ty Internationalen

åt alla lycka bär.

 

My maternal grandparents were wealthy. My grandfather was a lawyer, he bought the first car in town and he took the family on long car trips in Europe. My mother had clothes from Paris and dolls from Germany. At the age of 14 she had been in London, Paris, Vienna, Hamburg and Amsterdam. She spent her summers in a cottage by the lake and was drilled by her mother to be a good girl. Despite the money both of them carried a strong social conscious and told their little girls that everybody was equal and should be treated with respect.

As a child I marveled over that my mother would talk to anyone, drunkards, old ladies, babies and rich people, with the exact same tone and she would treat them no differently from each other.

How can two so different people met and fall in love? Well, there is such a thing as passion. My father was handsome with twinkling blue eyes, he was full of laughter and his strong hands could caress away any troubles. My mother had brown eyes and cheek bones to die for, she was smart and savvy but inside she still carries a tender heart.

I used to ask my mother who I was the most alike. She refused to answer. My eyes are not blue or brown, somewhere in between.  As I have become older I have realized that I have been blessed with exactly half of them inside, just like my eyes.