the most interesting conversations happen at the table around a glass of wine.
The other night as the party went from the backyard to the upstairs dining room, I realized, in that slow motion fashion one feels at times of realization, that I was desperate for a good conversation.
To my left sat a woman from a country out by Russia that I'm suppose to know. She had a slight accent which didn't distract much from her enormous presence - She was tall and she wore heels. Her smile was shy but her laugh was fearless and made her long hair tremble over her shoulders. Across the table was her friend, a smaller white dude with a tight polka-dot shirt and jeans, who would say small blurbs of intelligence and would dance as free and wild as I wish I could at the best of times.
The rest of the table and a majority of the room was occupied by Mexicans.
And I don't mean like New Yorkers who have a history in Mexico or chicanos or young proud brown people who might identify as Mexicans at times (guilty). I mean real indigenous Mexicans who came from small pueblos and now live in Queens and serve chinese food to Yankee fans and whiny white girls with small purses. Some of these folks didn't even know Spanish as their first language but rather their indigenous tongue that didn't help much on a gringo resume.
This was a problem. Albeit, a very cool and desired problem. I was eager to begin.
The conversation began more or less with one question to me from the Mexican side in spanish.
"Is he gay?"
"Who?"
"You know who, your friend, does he like men?"
"I don't know, why do you ask? Why do you care?"
"I saw how he danced with that guy. He's gay right?"
I don't know why it bothered me so much but my hesitation only became an interjection point for the giant Russian women who asked me what they were talking about and more importantly, if there was more beer.
The Mexican side must have unanimously understood the universal sign for an empty glass and immediately poured her more wine.
I caved. "They want to know about your dance moves, they were great," I said, looking at the white dude. His shirt wasn't so bad I thought. I could rock something like that perhaps, knowing that my girlfriend who at times became the fashion police sergeant would never allow it.
The white dude looked at me with a confused look which quickly turned into a giggle.
"Yeah, I mostly just dance however I feel you know? I don't really know how to dance though. It's just easier when you're drunk."
I looked at the Mexicans who didn't seem to care much about the response anymore. They were busy watching the Russian finish her wine in four big gulps. They quickly went into action for the refill.
"Oh, thank you," she said with a sort of reluctant voice. This happened about three more times that night. Soon she would be able to understand spanish I thought to myself.
Then I thought to myself, Fuck language. Then I said it out loud.
"Fuck language, No! Fuck English!"
The table got quiet but my Mexican anthropologist friend took that as her cue.
"Es cierto, it's true," she said pretty confidently as she straightened her posture.
"The North Americans use language as an imperialist tool to control the rest of the world. Do you know how many languages we lose every year?" She asked.
"So I was right," I added. "English is evil."
The white dude stepped in, this being one of his intelligent blurbs, "English cannot be evil, it isn't an inherent, tangible thing that can make the choice to be evil or hold evil," he said.
"He's right," I said, rubbing my chin and looking around the table for everyone to notice my humbleness.
The Mexicans poured the giant woman another glass of wine.
"Whoa, whoa," I said. "Isn't it weird that men always want to pour more alcohol for the ladies and even if the ladies don't ask for it or necessarily want it, the men continue to urge the women to drink more if they detest."
The table went quiet again. The Russian's eyes couldn't really hold a stare anymore.
"Ok - I just wanted to point that out. Please continue," I said, kind of embarrassed.
The conversation continued in this manner. The Mexicans would say something and I would respond and then translate my response to English in order for the two white people in the room to understand. At this point however, it was mostly for the dude since the Russian woman was having a hard time focusing to stay on her chair.
Suddenly,
The door creaked open and a warm "Hey!" sounded through the room as a pasty man and woman entered the room. It was a French accent but I labeled it Italian.
That was the beginning of my "couple crush."
End of Part 1. -
That was the beginning of my "couple crush."
End of Part 1. -
