Illegal immigration is a hot topic these days in Virginia and
Maryland, and a visit to a Latin-themed diner here can alter one’s
perception of the issue.
It’s well after three on this Friday afternoon, and the narrow,
dark, dingy dining room of this restaurant in a strip mall in
Rockville, Maryland , is empty. The place will fill up soon enough
with it usual patrons — the quiet, blank-faced, sun-burned men
from south of the border who paint Maryland’s houses and pave its
roads — but for now, I’m the only would-be customer.
Notice that I said would-be customer. I’m hungry and I’m doing
my best in elementary English to buy something. There’s is only one
problem: the Latino girl behind the counter doesn’t speak
English.
Encounters like this one are common in the Washington, D.C.,
region, and they help illustrate part of the impetus behind the
current push in the area to make life uncomfortable for illegal
immigrants in the hope that they would pack up and leave.
Last week, the Washington Post reported that the Board of County Supervisors in
Prince William County, Virginia, voted unanimously to “cut off
certain services to illegal immigrants who are homeless, elderly or
addicted to drugs.” Other jurisdictions in the area have adopted or
are considering similar measures.
Now, the girl behind the counter could very well be in the
country illegally, but her immigration status is of little concern
to me. I just want to eat, but my question is: Why doesn’t she
learn English? I’m tempted to scream at the top of my lungs, but
some invisible force ties the tongue.
The girl and I try to communicate — she in Spanish, with vague
hand gestures, I in English with clumsy hand gestures. But we’re
getting nowhere. And she’s yawning: perhaps she’s tired, or maybe
she’s bored by something about my speech patterns (or by my
appearance).
I like one item on the menu — chicken, it says — but the menu,
on a small board high above the counter, is written in such a spare
English/Spanish style that I need help deciphering the lines.
“How is the chicken served?” I say to the girl. “I’d like
something that I won’t have to eat with my fingers.”
No response. The girl attempts a smile. She interlocks the
fingers of her hands, and plays with them, still looking at me.
“Is the chicken boneless, and can I have it served with rice or
mashed potatoes?” (Rice and mashed potatoes were clearly visible
through the glass in containers under the counter.)
Again, no response. The girl looks at the young man to her left,
obviously hoping to be rescued. But the man, in a white apron, is
doing his best to stay out of this mess. He’s pretending to keep
busy, trying to empty the garbage bin. He says something to the
girl in Spanish.
Ignored by the young man, the girl goes around the corner, deep
into the kitchen, and fetches an older man. A manager?
I pose a modified version of my first question to the older man.
But he, too, doesn’t speak English, or doesn’t want to speak
English. Instead of a verbal response, the man picks up one of the
white cellophane carryout containers from a pile on the counter and
shows it to me.
What is he trying to say? Frustrated, I throw up my hands. I
give up, and, walking toward the door, I say, “Never mind,” and
disappear into the bustle of the sidewalk.
I had been an intruder in an eatery aimed principally at
customers of a certain ethnic group. I’m sure the three workers,
seeing me leave, were relieved. So was I. But I still needed to
eat. Luckily for me, there was a Chinese restaurant next door.
“Table for one?” The girl, impeccably dressed and sticking
strictly to the matter at hand, asks in accented English. At least
they speak English here, I say to myself, even if it’s the kind of
English that requires only Yes or No answers.
No table for me, I tell the girl. She gives me a white
cellophane carryout container in which I dump noodles, fried
chicken, vegetables and two egg rolls, a big dinner that sets me
back only $8.
I sit on the bench under a cluster of young trees at a nearby
park and eat my quarry. The food is greasy, and the egg rolls are a
bit too dry, but considering the circumstances, it was a
bargain.
As I drove home, trying to imagine myself in the Latino girl’s
situation, I kept asking myself: Why don’t they learn English?
