Multiculturalism: Aisle Four

You think you are being stealthy, with your sidelong glances.  Loading your chef boyardee, and greek yogurt on the conveyer belt, you strain to hear what I am saying.  Don't worry, your eyes and ears are not playing tricks on you.  You are in fact seeing a blonde, pasty white gringa talking to her equally pale baby in Spanish (with a Peruvian accent, thank you very much).  A few phrases later, you are no longer trying to hide your distain.  After all, I’m not Hispanic.  My baby isn’t Hispanic.

Why then speak in Spanish?

I could tell you there are 45 million Spanish speakers in the United States.

No? Not good enough?

Well, I could say I want my baby to grow up bilingual. After all, speaking 2 or more languages offer countless advantages throughout life.

Ok, I guess.

How about I want her to learn from other cultures?

But this is MURICA!

What you don't know, as you mutter "we speak English here" under your breath, is that I want my daughter to grow up immersed in part of her culture.

That's right, HER CULTURE.

You don't know about a life-long friend who decided I was no longer her friend but her sister.

You don't know about her abuelita, proudly introducing me as her granddaughter everywhere we went.

After all, you can only live with someone for so long, share so many holidays, laughter and tears, before they become family. And if that isn't sufficient, only a grandma insists on holding a grown woman's hand, as if she were a child, when crossing the street!

You see, judgy stranger, I'm sharing much more than the gift of language with my daughter.  Without Spanish she wouldn't be able to communicate with this loving family who has embraced her as one of their own.  My daughter now has aunts to teach her how to make ají de gallina and ceviche, uncles to scare away any chico who isn't up to snuff (which will be all of them, sorry chiquita!), and the sweetest great-grandmother who will hold her hand to cross the street.

Maybe this grocery run was first time you had a break from your kids all week.

I get it.

Maybe you were having a bad day.

Trust me, I’ve been there.

Obviously we have differing views, but we are still mothers.  We both want what’s best for our children and spending time with her extended family in Peru will only enrich my daughter’s life. My infant may not be old enough to pick up on this awkward encounter between you and me, but one day she will be.  I don’t want her thinking that there is anything wrong with her multicultural family.

So the next time we pass each other in aisle 4, unless you plan on holding my daughter’s hand every time she crosses the street, please keep your narrow minded mumblings and your six boxes of mac and cheese to yourself.