Diversity

As I steered my cart down an Anchorage supermarket aisle on a quest for ketchup, I saw a young woman intently studying the jars of spaghetti sauce. Something about her manner told me she was feeling overwhelmed by the display.

I said hi and that was enough to give her permission to ask for help. “Please,” she said, with a wave of her hand that encompassed the hundreds of jars of spaghetti sauce. “For this?” and she pointed to a cellophane bag of pasta lying in her shopping cart.

I nodded as I took in the variety of brands and styles available and imagined what it would be like to choose one if I couldn't read English. “¿Habla español?” I asked, just in case that would make our communication easier, but she just stared at me blankly. I tried a different tack. “United States,” I said, pointing to myself. Then I pointed to her with a questioning expression on my face.

“Azerbaijan,” was her answer. I don't even know what language people from Azerbaijan speak, but I was confident my Spanish wasn't going to be of much use in this situation.

I surveyed the spaghetti sauce choices quickly and found a row of jars that featured pictures of the main ingredients. One variety showed garlic next to the tomatoes, another basil, another cheese. I did my best to indicate that any of the several hundred jars would be a good choice. But it wasn't my place to decide her menu for her.

We parted, but a few minutes later I ran into her again in the detergent aisle. I never thought about how many choices there were for someone who simply wanted to wash some clothes. She indicated with her hands that she only wanted a little detergent, but she was confused by the small boxes of dryer sheets. As well she might be. I tried to explain that those boxes were not soap and steered her attention to the smallest liquid and powdered detergent choices available.

We didn't develop much of a relationship in the few minutes we spent shopping together. But it was enough for me to reflect on the human diversity that makes my life so interesting and rich.

Back in Papagayos, everyone except for Laurel and me is Mexican, and in my mind our neighbors' collective characteristics define what it means to be Mexican.

However, my image of what someone from the United States is like is a little more complicated. I have a picture in mind based on the dominant culture as I understood it from the vantage point of my childhood. But my image is so often wrong that I'm ceasing to be amazed when I see that my fellow countrymen and women come in so many skin tones and speak so many languages. It makes me proud.