My parents migrated from the Dominican Republic in the late 1960s. They decided to leave the country when my father lost his job with the Central Romana Corporation, the big sugar refinery in La Romana.
The language barrier was their biggest obstacle in the States. My father had learned basic English back home through some courses. Over time, my mother also learned English but not before experiencing many moments of panic and confusion. Mamá's crusade to convert to the American vernacular was sparked after a situation arose in a Chicago supermarket.
Saturday afternoons, Mamá routinely went grocery shopping with Inez, the Mexican lady from next door. One Saturday, Mamá decided to cook "rabo encendío" which called for rabo de vaca (oxtail) as the main ingredient, seasoned with picante until they were fiery hot (hence the "encendio").
When they entered the store, Mamá and Inez realized they had a problem: neither one of them knew how to say rabo in English. At that time, the neighborhood was predominantly Polish so there were no other shoppers they could turn to for assistance. The women headed to the meat section where six butchers tended to the customers. They carefully checked the glass display counter from one end to the other, through various cuts of juicy beef, chunky pork and fleshy poultry without any luck.
Mamá was the more daring of the two.
"I want some meat. I no see here." She waved her hands over the display.
"What kind of meat are you looking for?" The butcher adjusted his cap.
"Err, you know. From the cow, from the cow." Mamá's hands made a circular motion as if somehow moving the air around her could loosen the right word. The butcher pointed at all the different cuts of beef behind the glass. Both women shook their heads in disapproval each time his finger hovered over a selection.
A brilliant idea occurred to my mother. Like an actress from the silent film era, Mamá turned to the side so that the butcher saw her profile. With her right hand, she gestured at her rear and pretended to extract an imaginary tail. The butcher's ultramarine eyes followed her movements. His face became the color of the raw London broil before him, not from embarrassment but rather from trying to contain the laughter that threatened to explode out of him. He asked Mamá to show him again. She pulled out her invisible tail once more and he bent over to release a howl. He managed to keep his face hidden behind a pork loin, which he offered to Mamá.
"This one?" He tightened his face in an effort to maintain seriousness.
"No, no!" Mamá and Inez answered in unison.
"Show me again."
In Mamá's innocence, she repeated her movements, this time Inez joined her. The butcher doubled over once more and in succession attempted to hand Mamá beef ribs, liver, and tongue; everything except the rabo.
Finally, the butcher told Mamá that he was going to get some assistance because he truly wanted to please them. He returned with all the other meat men and asked the two women to explain anew what they sought. Mamá and Inez turned sideways and extracted their nonexistent appendages while exclaiming, "From the cow. You know...moo!" The butchers couldn't contain themselves and burst into guffaws and knee-slaps. The two friends suddenly realized that the whole affair had been one grand joke at their expense. One of the men took pity on them and brought out various oxtails. Mamá felt the heat radiating from her mortified face. She took her meat without waiting for it to be properly cut.
That night, my father had the unenviable task of chopping the oxtails with an ill-suited knife, grumbling the entire time.
"Why didn't you have these cut in the supermarket?" Mamá didn't answer him. But when she came home earlier, she had immediately dropped her shopping bags in the kitchen and headed straight for the dictionary
© 2006 by Glendaliz Camacho.