The mother of a friend, a few days after 911, when “incidents” were very frequent, was reluctant to go anywhere, in part due to her “Middle Eastern appearance.”
She was finally persuaded to just go to the “flea” market in her neighborhood, populated almost exclusively by immigrants from many different countries.
At this time, 911 was the only thing on any channel, CNN was running stories about flags being sold out, factories (in China) working 24 and 7 could not keep up with the demand.
When she got to the market, a man from Pakistan was selling surahs (Koran verses) embroidered in gold on black velvet. In the stall across the aisle, was a Mexican selling cowboy boots. Several people were trying on boots, examining boots, no one at all was paying any attention to the jar of American flags on the counter.
“There is no way to tell you how I felt seeing all those people, from all over the world, just ignoring those flags,” the lady said later. She wanted to just go hug them all, for reassuring her that the America she knew was still there.
The Mexican was complaining to the guy from Pakistan that his sister had told him flags were hot, but he hadn’t sold even one. However, he was worried about the transportation slowdown, because he feared he might run out of boots. His tiny stall was crowded with people, his sons skillfully weaving in and out to bring a size smaller here, the same thing in black there.
“I like those boots,” his neighbor said, pointing to a pair of green and cream ones. “Green was the Prophet’s favorite color.” Looking around his own stand, he picked up a large framed 99 names of God and offered a trade.
“You got it!” grinned the Mexican. “If it’s religious and it’s gold, my wife wants it.”
A few stalls down, a Korean lady was lecturing her Somali client on the evils of pointed toe, high heeled shoes. “You make my job too hard,” she scolded. “I don’t soak these feet, these calluses don’t come off.” plopping the delinquent feet into a bowl of blue foam. “you young girls come America and you want be Britney Spear, don’t think about future of feet.”
“Li-Li!” she shouted to the Chinese lady in the stall across the narrow aisle. “Show this lady sexy shoes, She soaking.”
In less than a minute the soaking one was surrounded by boxes, each containing satin ballet-style slippers with graceful rounded toes, each beautifully embroidered with dragons, peonies and birds of paradise. “And just ten dollar. So you can get all colors.”
“These are jalabis.” In the next stall, a young man from India held out a tray of sweets to a diminutive Indian from Guatemala. “Try one.” His client popped one in his mouth and a wide smile spread across his face. “Delicioso!” he exclaimed. “Sabor de America! How much for one box?” Attracted by the samples, several other customers crowded around the stall, tasting, smiling, buying. The proprietor was very busy. “Yes, yes, ladoos, you were next, one minute, sir, yes, ma’am, all 100% fresh, made right here in America early this morning by my mother.”
At the hubcap stall, men from at least a dozen countries, few in western dress, argued about cricket. And soccer. “I told my son’s school,” said one, you want to be a good school, you get a cricket team. They say they have soccer. I tell him, not good enough.” He is answered by a cacophony of agreement and indignant retorts. Soccer is the best game in the world, the future of America, what are you talking about? Good for you! You have to be firm with these schools, they do not understand education. Let me tell you something, my grandfather played cricket, he won many prizes, my son – You can keep your cricket, my daughters…
It will be some time before anyone remembers that they are there to buy hubcaps.
A stout woman in African dress, piercing needle poised, peered critically at her client’s classic Arab nose. “I looking for the spot that make it look small.”
“I think that is a spot you will not find,” laughed her customer.
Two bewildered-looking Icelandic girls look in all directions, they are lost in the welter of languages, smells, the billowing, sliding, flowing of fabric in every color of the rainbow, dancing around them in dizzying global array.
A handsome young man from Mexico comes to their rescue. “Tourists!” he exclaims. I am Ignacio. I give you tour of America. No charge. Can I touch your hair?”
A few weeks later, a western reporter in Afghanistan tried to explain to his hosts, villagers who had never heard of New York, why the US was bombing their country. He showed them video of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers.
“But why are they so angry?” asked an old man, gesturing toward the ruins of the village.
“Only two of their buildings were destroyed.”
Thank you for a great story. Can you share with us where it took place?
The bustle and diversity makes it sound like a souk somewhere in the middle-east – though it otherwise places it in southern US.
Most people are just ordinary people struggling to get by while enjoying the company and support of those in a similar situation. Their personal persuations are not that important at that level (if left alone) and the diversity enriches and enables them to make progress.
One of those you can almost reach out and touch -well, I guess if you’ve been to one of those flea markets or something similar. America in all its Americaness.
I’ve only once lived in an area where there was not a profusion of colors and cultures. Not for long, though.
Where I am now, we have a little of almost every culture. A man originally from India owns the corner store. He is completely westernized, in dress, but sometimes his old father comes to spend some time there. Not working in the store, though… he sits, crosslegged, outside the door on an electrical box type thing… with his flowing white garments and turban, and a graying beard, calmly watching everyone go by. I wish I could paint, because what a picture that would make.
Lots of people went completely mad, after 9/11… some never recovered. In my little redneck city, there was a huge profusion of flags on buildings and cars and lots of wild talk and … just general awfulness. I’ve always hated this place.
But… there were also those who organized themselves to be able mobilize on a dime to rush to this store to protect a Sikh, turban wearing owner who was being threatened, or to surround mosques, or to walk protectively with people of “Middle Eastern appearance”, and who stood up against the tide of hate that was attempting to take over. I loved this place, then. For a time :).
It’s really too bad that the former was encouraged and the latter discouraged, so that the anger would build until it was accepted that assuaging it by bombing people who had done nothing to us (Iraq and Afghanistan) was the “right thing to do”.
Lovely story, Ductape Fatwa. You have a real gift for helping us see the human beings most affected by political issues. 9/11 was devastating, but there was such comfort and hope in the way our country and the world seemed to pull together, to help each other. Such kindness, sacrifice, concern and loving support from so many. We shared our grief and resolved not to let it change us. Then a heartbreaking backlash, not unexpected in itself, because fools are always with us, but enflamed, bolstered, and sustained by the actions of our own government.
Your story reminds me that America is still full of Americans, adventurous people from many places, looking for a new life with countless possibilities. Like the Boss said, “The America we hold in our hearts is still waiting.”
This was lovely, a real bright spot in a dark time. I’m going to save this diary and keep it as a haven I can visit from time to time, a warm place to rest.