An Online Magazine by Bay Area Writing Project Writers!
Tortilla (corn) Chips
©Elisa Salasin, 2008
I could blame the store for not stocking the shelves properly. I could blame PMS. I could blame the fact that tortilla chips are not called tortilla chips here; they are called corn chips. I could blame my American-centric sense of entitlement that says I should be able to find a bag of tortilla (corn) chips on the shelf of the grocery store whenever I want, thank you very much.
But really, there is nothing and no one to blame for the fact that I am pacing the grocery store aisle willing myself not to cry, feeling the lump form in the back of my throat just the same. I grab the closest thing to what I am looking for—unsure if it is even really close at all—walk to the checkout stand, and paste on a smile. “Hi,” the overly friendly clerk says. I smile wider and give a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“How you going?” she asks politely. My mind quickly translates the Australian expression as the tears prickle and threaten to overflow. “Fine,” I reply through the forced smile. “Just fine.” Then, remembering my manners I ask, “You?”
She smiles back, asks for my $6.70, and collects my payment, already looking to the woman behind me who is buying apples. Four ordinary apples.
Receipt and change in hand I thank her, gather my shopping bag, and exit. I'm still smiling—outwardly. Inside my two year-old self is throwing a tantrum of epic proportions: “It's just a bag of tortilla (corn) chips,” I tell myself rationally. “Really, there is no need for tears.” But it is not about the tortilla (corn) chips. It never really was. It is the helplessness-demon, a nasty little imp that is my fear incarnate, who resides in my gut and surfaces every now and then to remind me, taunting and mocking, that I am a foreign transplant to this place and I am not entitled to anything, especially not tortilla (corn) chips. There is nothing that unnerves me more than feeling helpless.
On the surface, it is so similar: People speak my language (more or less), the landscape is comparable to my home, the television shows and movies are mostly imported from Hollywood (albeit a season or two behind), the currency here is even the dollar for crying out loud. It is not as though I am navigating a totally foreign culture. And yet, it is the apparent similarities that serve to emphasize the peculiarities of my surroundings and my own awkwardness within them; awkwardness is right up there with helplessness on my list of least favorite feelings.
I shuffle dejectedly home. Drop the grocery bag. Announce to my husband, “I am going to cry now and it has absolutely nothing to do with you,” and proceed to bawl. And bawl.
Later, we toss the bag of purchased tortilla (corn) chips in the rubbish (trash) bin, chop up some actual tortillas—which oddly enough are available—and make our own.
©Erin Berelle Munro, 2008
Erin Berelle Munro officially began her life with BAWP in the summer of 2005 (she was Erin Carlson then). Erin recently relocated to Adelaide, Australia, where she is enjoying a brief break from teaching, desperately missing Mexican food, and slowly remembering how to write again. Ms. Carlson, her teacher-persona, was honored to learn from students at the East Oakland School of the Arts (formerly Castlemont High School) in Oakland, California, where she taught 9th-12th grade English for eight years. She can be found at erinberelle@gmail.com
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Dear Erin, What a treat to find your byline on Digital Paper and to read your piece on missing tortilla chips. Not missing chips exactly but wrestling with the intersection of identity and place, identity which we experience often through food. Thank you for offering me (and others)a glimpse of homesickness from down under.
--M. Clare LePell ( mclepell@aol.com ) from US on 7/9/2008; 8:57:25 PM
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Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
Copyright 2008 Digital Paper
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