I live in East Flatbush Brooklyn currently, a predominantly black and brown neighborhood. Most of itās residents contain Caribbean souls of all ages along with the newly gentrified made faces. This is not known to be a highly Hispanic populated area, but of course there are Hispanic folks about. One in a particular, I met at, what I nicknamed theĀ āGentrification deliā -where there are no Doritos or Arizona's to buy, was a indigenous looking guy with a fat face, and red and grey cap. He stood out immediately because the place was ran by Middle eastern fellows.
My first interaction with him was when I ordered my first strawberry banana Belgian waffle. The moment we interacted he was unfriendly. He never smiled at me, his tone consistently brute, and the order always wrong. The machine required to make the waffle was a hassle to operate and interfered with their work flow. But it is still a menu option. I never knew why that could make him not want to be polite with me. I defiantly didnāt want to think irrationally and play something like the race card. I simply wanted my waffle made right with some kindness put into it. That never happened so I eventually stopped going.
Months pass and I decided to give it another go at the waffle. I immediately see the same green and red baseball cap, only this time it greets me with a smile along with a change in tone of a familiar Mexican like accent. He takes my order but this time only politely. I was stunned by his kindness and we exchange quick pleasant remarks. I felt something in me at that moment that changed the game forever. As I walked away I loudly saidĀ ā Cuidate Primoā, and his smile shoots wide faster bullet. He quickly screams āaye why you aint tell me you speak spanishā (in spanish). Every morning that i spend in that deli, he takes my order with a smile and in Spanish, and it wars my heart.Ā
Something about speaking the same language and a bit of the universe connected me to this man. Iām his regular and heās my primo.Ā











