Really. Would you like some pickles with those pancakes?
Take a road trip with me back to the early 1970s. My family lived in Virginia but all of our relatives were in New Mexico. Air travel was not a consideration for a family with four kids. Instead, we took road trips back home. Long road trips. I couldn't stand long car trips when I was young. Probably why I vehemently dislike them still.
It was Summer hot and Ronnie and I were fighting over the back area of the station wagon. Some of you may remember the back of your station wagon fondly. That place with more room where you could lay down with blankets and pillows. Much cooler than a middle or front seat. The best part about the back area of the wagon was that our little sisters would not be as close to us. Ronnie, my younger brother, and I were the masters of the back area.
We were on the final leg of our trip back to Albuquerque to the refuge of my Grandma's kitchen where she would make me fresh hot tortillas lathered in butter. It was early in the morning and we were all hungry. Problem was we were in the Texas Panhandle area, just to the east of New Mexico. Not many choices in that part of the country. No McDonald's and Stuckey's was not an option. My Dad finally decided on an isolated diner.
Cool! A place where we could order breakfast off a paper menu! We didn't eat out often so any type of meal out was a treat to us. We piled out of the car and into the diner. We sat down in the round booth, shoving and pushing each other to get the personal space we needed. It isn't always easy to seat a family of six with four kids jockeying for some type of position.
I ordered pancakes. I couldn't wait to get them. Fidgeting and continuing the kneeing and elbowing with Ronnie, the wait felt like an eternity. When they finally came I dug into them. Wait. Hold the presses. There was something green in my pancakes. I dug it out. A pickle slice. Not just one but many. There were pickles in my pancakes. Okay, this is not acceptable.
"Dad, there are pickles in my pancakes" I shouted. I wasn't one to keep my voice down when I was upset. "Daaaaad. Pickles in my pancakes!". My Dad looked them over. Yep, there were pickles in my pancakes. I asked him to send them back and get me some pancakes without pickles. But my Dad didn't do that. He did something else.
He told us to pick up everything we had brought into the diner and get ready to leave. Leave? What on Earth are you talking about Dad? We can't just leave; we hadn' t eaten yet. As we got our things together I looked up past the front counter at the fry cook. He was lanky and bearded. He was also scowling. Scowling at us.
We left the diner in silence. When we got into the car my Dad told us why we left. The pickles were a not-so-subtle sign that we were not welcome there. We were not welcome there because, but for my Mom, we were all brown. Brown Americans. My first personal encounter with racism.
I would like to think that some 35 years later the tides had turned and paranoid insecurities were gone. But they haven't.
I avoid the Texas Panhandle to this day.
