“Uvas a la ordern!! Conseguirlos aqui por favor señorita!!! A
la ordern, a la ordern!!”
They flood the streets in masses, I can’t help but see
individual faces. I’m stuck in traffic while a crippled man
weaves between the cars. He approaches slowly with a damp
cloth. Sweetly, he starts cleaning the car mirrors. He takes his
time. He looks like a grandpa I think, as mine is driving the
car, looking straight ahead. Suddenly I become conscious of
my black and white polka dotted dress, I feel very silly. And
vain. I feel very vain with my makeup and earrings. I notice
the running air conditioning in the car and his wrinkled
brown hat that combats the heat of the sun. He holds out his
leathery hands and I hate myself for every penny I’ve spent
prior to this moment as I only have quarters. Bless his heart,
he’s happy with what I offer and tips his hat as a gesture of
gratitude. I fill with self hatred at the pity I feel for the man.
The lady in the shop is trying to sell scarves and when she
sees my interest, she gives her baby to a little boy.
She tells them to go play. They run off as she starts
showing me different colors and styles. She looks no older than
I as she struggles to count change. Images of complaining
about my math class taunt me. Doodling during powerpoint
presentations about the slope of a line had become regretful.
I’m selfish. What they wouldn’t give for the education I so
casually threw away. She has kind eyes and was delighted
about the amount of scarves I took home. As I walk away I
hear her call to her children, she excitedly gives them money
for lunch. The lite up face of the little boy heals my hurt
heart.
The lady is outside selling rotten grapes for five cents
for the bunch. Her hair runs in a long braid down her back
and she looks like the women in navajo documentaries. The
ones who string bracelets and blankets for a living. Her face
was just as leathery as the old man’s hands. She has a missing
tooth and a baby on her back. And somehow I knew
the baby wasn’t going to make it. Insistent with her grapes, I
recount the times I threw away food. Even whole sandwich-
es. I remember every single one when I look at the baby.
I drive by in my steel carriage and nothing I can do will
impact her life in the long run. The only thing stopping me
from giving up my life and stand next to her to help sell
grapes is the five other women around her. Like clones with
their own bunches of grapes, they each drown in their own
poverty. The crushing immensity of the problem intimidates
me and I am rendered helpless. It’s easy enough for me to
stay put, it’s not my problem to solve because I wasn’t born
needing to.
I go back to the United States. The land of Disney
World and ungrateful gringos. Everyone’s rich in the United
States they say. They say that everyone in the United States
feels superior to them. I get back to my life, with my house
and my car. I open packages that come in the mail for me
from online orders. I have a job and a bank account and play
the waiting game of colleges getting back to me. The accep-
tances start rolling in to colleges I know I won’t go to and
scholarships I know I won’t use. And I hate it because there
is nothing I can do about it but recognize the privilege. And
I have no right to hate it or complain about it because I’m
the one with the crushing privilege. I live a better life, one
with a future. I will get an education and be able to study
anything I’d like. I have a better life, not because I deserve
it, but because I was born into it. Here I am, suffocating in
the illusion that I’m making a difference when I volunteer in
a soup kitchen or conducting a fundraiser. All while they are
still there, selling grapes and scarves, washing car mirrors,
and living, living in the injustice.
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