I would like Dos todas empanadas de la carne de vaca, la salsa especial, la lechuga, el queso, los encurtidos, las cebollas en un bollo de la semilla de sésamo. If I Could Get That in English, Though, That Would be Nice

When I was in High school, I got an internship at a small sugar beet seed company based in Shakopee. Betaseed inc. they were called, and they helped to develop about 60% (I think) of the sugar beet seeds worldwide. They were Mendelian geneticists for the most part, expediting evolution so that beets could be successfully grown in arid, cold, wet, or disease-ridden climates. I was the youngest intern they had ever had, so they said, and my counterparts were all not Americans. Fernando, one of the interns, was a Brazilian. Anton and Lucas, the other interns, were French. All of them were in their final years of college and were career-bound. Now I can speak Portuguese. I have been able to do it all my life. In fact, English is technically my second language—an accident of order learned not a measure of ability. So naturally, I was excited. I would get to practice my Portuguese with a native speaker. So one day I walked up to him and said oi. It means hi—real simple, non-offensive.

Fernando looked at me and through his heavy accent, asked me my name.

I told him, "Josh."

"Well, Josh," he said, "I'd love to talk to you later in Portuguese, I miss being able to speak with people in my own language. But, just so you know, we do not speak in anything but English here in the fields."

"Why?" I asked.

"It's rude."

That was the only reason he gave me. It was simple. I was too naïve to understand the singular reason, but too accepting to argue with him. So, I just accepted the verity of what he said. As the summer went on I found that everyone, Anton and Lucas included, spoke only English when in the presence of mixed ethnic company. The only time they would break out the French would be when they needed to confer about how to say a word in English. Their conversations in French were always neutral, and always translated by them after they were finished. They were not speaking English because they were forced to—it was not written into the company policy. They were not speaking English because they had lost their national pride and were trying to prove some sort of allegiance to a new land. In fact, Lucas refused to teach me the French National Anthem because he told me it is too important and sacred to him to sing it in a field picking sugar beets. They do not speak their native tongues in the presence of others out of simple respect.

At the beginning of last week, I went to my local McDonald's. I got a few movies from the Red Box, and I was hoping to get a little bit of food to
eat as well. I went to the counter and asked how big their prepared salads are.

"How much they are?" asked the woman behind the counter. She had a heavy Spanish accent.

"No, how big are they."

"How much money they are?"

"No! How big, as in what is their size?"

"How big are the money cost?"

"No, how much is in each salad?" I showed her sizes with my hand. I moved them from a big circle to a little circle saying, "are they big?" when the circle was larger, "or are they small?" when the circle was smaller.

"Oh, I see." She pointed back into the fridge and said, "they are there."
In the middle of the exchange her manager came up and started speaking to her in Spanish. They had a side conversation in front of me in their native tongue. I was no longer important enough to be included in the conversation. I felt a bit neglected. Then, the person back at the fry vat turned around and entered the conversation too. There were four of us in the restaurant (it was late) and I was the only one not able to talk—and I was the freakin' customer.

I figured the incident was isolated until about two hours ago when I went to a Subway restaurant in Minneapolis.

"What is your special today?"

"Which bread you want?"

"Honey oat" I told her.

"Which sandwich?"

"Well, which special are you running?" I asked again.

She pointed at the sign. "It is this one."

"Yes, which day is it. I'm not sure. Which special are you giving? This lists seven."

"Oh, the ham and turkey special."

"Hmm, I'll take a twelve inch Chicken Parmesian I guess."

"What kind of bread you want?"

"Honey oat," I said it a bit more sternly this time.

"Okay, which sandwich?"

"Chicken Parmesian."

"Do you want a foot long, or a six inch sub?"

"I'll take the foot long."

"Okay, you say you want the Turkey Parmesian?"

"No, I want the Chicken Parmesian."

"Okay." She finally got to making it. She put it in the toaster and started dealing with the customer behind me who she made similarly frustrated. The toaster dinged. By this time, her manager, another Mexican, had come to the front to help. The two began holding a conversation in Spanish while trying to help me in English.

"Okay, what you want on it?"

"I want, pickles, lettuce, and tomatoes—"

She put the tomatoes on.

"Pickles and lettuce"

She put on the pickles.

"Lettuce"

She finally put the lettuce on my sandwich. She continued conversing with her manager.

"I want banana peppers, olives, and jalapenos."

She put on green peppers.

"banana-peppers, olives, and jalapenos."

She put on the olives.

"banana-peppers and jalapenos."

She put on the jalapenos. "Anything else?"

"Jalapenos!"

She put them on. "Anything else."

"I just want a tiny, tiny, tiny bit of ranch dressing."

She grabbed the ranch dressing (still conversing with her manager) and squirted more ranch dressing onto my sandwich than I have ever put on an entire salad. I was disgusted. I said, "I'm sorry, I don't want that sandwich," and I left.

Now, I've never been one to be real picky when it comes to food. I've never left without paying for something I ordered. But this took the cake. I have never felt like an alien in the country my own mother was an alien in until just a few years ago when she finally got her citizenship. Until recently, I have sort of assumed that there was a natural edicate assumed when coming here. But apparently I was wrong. I can't go into McDonald's or Subway anymore without being alienated form conversation and nervous that the employees are talking about me. And the weirdest part of it is, I have had no problems of this nature until the recent immigration rallies. Is it that immigrants are getting lazy? Do they feel they have convince America that they are so essential to our life-force, that they no longer have to abide by those important codes of edicate? Well I have news for you, and if you're an immigrant reading this I hope you agree with me—and if you don't, I hope you get deeply offended and ruminate on this in your anger for a while because perhaps in marinating in this for a bit you'll see the truth of what I'm saying—if you want me to accept your arguments for immigration reform, you had better learn this language. Because, guess what,  I am an immigrant too. I was born in Brazil. My mother came here by working hard to achieve her goals. And she stayed here because she loves this country. She is in school even to this day—twenty plus years after she first came here—learning English. I have empathy for those who don't know this language. But I have almost no sympathy for those who refuse to learn. And frankly, protests aren't going to do a lick of good if you can't tell me why it is you want to stay here in a language I can understand.

Is that racist of me? No sir. It's simply etiquette. You came here, now speak in the vernacular; it's the least you can do.