What's The Difference?

Joao left his Bronx apartment and walked down the street towards the bodega to purchase some ingredients his mother needed for tonight's dinner. The walk from his apartment to the corner store was not far, and the weather on this spring evening was soothing. Days like this Joao didn’t mind going out to run errands. He was a laid-back teenager who never thought much of anything more than was necessary. His mother told him to be quick, and not in that nice “Please don’t be too long,” tone, but rather in the fierce tone that is standard among Latina women. A tone that often came with the implications of pending punishment.

“I need all-purpose seasoning and onions. Apurase.” Hurry up.

What’s the difference? It was the thought that Joao had as he stood in the aisle of the bodega being stared down by the shelves of neatly placed seasonings. There were so many, too many, and he could feel himself heating up as he started to become overwhelmed by the selection. Unlike Joao, his mother was a meticulous person. She found fault in nearly everything. When she sent Joao out to the store, she wasn’t specific, and the last thing Joao wanted was to anger her by returning with the wrong items. A clerk saw the confusion on Joao’s face and offered him help. Almost instinctively, Joao began to say that he was alright. But he was not alright. It had been fifteen minutes since he left and the image of his mother growing impatient became more vivid as time passed.

“I’m looking for all-purpose seasoning and onions.”

The store clerk gave a slight nod and pointed to a shelf in front of Joao.

“And the onions are in the back with the rest of the vegetables,” the clerk said, wondering if the young Latino could read, and unsure if this new generation of kids will also be the last.

“If you need anything else let me know,” he said in a way that clearly preferred if Joao didn’t let him know.

“Thank you,” Joao said and turned 90 degrees to face a shelf where numerous all-purpose seasonings faced him at eye level. Which one to choose seemed of little importance.

If they are all all-purpose, isn’t one kind enough? Joao thought. How many all-purpose seasonings does there need to be to serve all the purposes?

Joao looked out at the selection of onions in front of him. There were red onions, white onions, small onions, big onions, all of them organized in baskets.

What’s the difference? He thought. His mother hadn’t asked for any specific kind of onion. Yet, he knew if he brought the wrong onion home, she would not be happy.

An onion is an onion regardless if its red, white, big, or small. Are some onions worse or better than others? He thought. To further add to Joao’s confusion, the smallest onion was slightly more expensive than the largest onion.

Looking around the corner store, he saw the various people walking about. In the 30 minutes that he had been there an Asian lady, a blonde-haired woman, and a black girl with long braided hair had passed by him as he searched for the ingredients his mother requested. Joao looked at the counter and two Latino men were waiting for sandwiches in front of the deli counter. A person is a person is a person. But are they any different than these onions? They’re all the same to me. He thought. With that last thought, he grabbed the biggest onion he saw, made the purchase, and began walking back to the apartment.

Joao’s mother had her hands full. She was tending to her youngest son who was becoming hangry. It had been nearly 40 minutes since Joao had left. Her patience was dwindling, and she kept eyeing the sandals on her feet as thoughts of the spanking she would give Joao became the only way to soothe her increasing frustration.

“Este niño.” This kid. “If he is not dead, he is going to wish he was.” At that moment Joao entered the apartment. The look on his mother’s face said enough for him to know that he had indeed taken too long.

“What took you so long?” His mother said as she stomped barefooted towards the door. On her hands were the sandals she had been wearing. Joao doesn’t ever remember his mother being able to walk on her hands. “I told you to get two things. Dios mío.” My God. She snatched the bag from her son, looked inside, and moments later its contents were on the floor.

“You got the wrong seasoning and onion,” she said approaching her son with her hand high in the air. The sandal like a mighty sword ready to smack down its foe.

“But what’s the difference!” Joao shouted.

Years Later

The waiter came to the table to take the order for Joao and his girlfriend Maria. Ever since they started living together, they went out to a new restaurant once a month. It was exciting, new and refreshing, but it was an event where the experience was always hindered by Joao’s trouble past.

“And what will you have?” The waitress asked looking towards the pretty Latina woman across from Joao. Maria spent no more than two minutes perusing the menu before deciding on a vegetarian dish that was essentially a salad with soy meat, tortilla chips, and a spicy Mexican dressing.

“And for you?” The waitress was now looking at Joao, who opened his mouth to speak, except he didn’t speak. Instead, he opened the menu again, scanned it, closed it, opened it, until the waitress finally asked if he needed more time.

“No he does not need more time he knows what he wants,” said Maria sternly.

“Yes, I’ll have the fish burger,” Joao said this with a satisfaction equal to a child’s pat on the back for using the potty correctly. “Sorry, everything looks so good.”

“And would you like regular fries or curly fries with that?”

Joao’s eyes widened. Maria’s face sank into the palms of her hands. The waitress stood uncomfortable. Over a decade later and the trip to the corner store on that spring day still haunts the dark-haired, dark-eyed Latino. The Joao before that trip to the corner store would have decided in seconds. That Joao lived in the carefree days of childhood. When decisions both big and little did not seem to have much of an impact on the outcome. At least not in the present moment.

“What’s the difference?” Joao asked.

That week Maria had forced Joao to go see a therapist after the incident at the restaurant. This was not the first time Maria had seen Joao break down like that. In fact, it was nearly impossible to enter any supermarket and ask for his opinion on what to buy. Especially when the differences between items were minor.

The tipping point that had Maria demanding for Joao to go see a therapist was when she had asked her to get some parmesan cheese. Unless Maria told him the exact brand, size, color, or other features, it was unreliable to send him out to purchase something.

“It doesn’t matter, they’re all the same,” Maria said.

“They are not all the same,” Joao replied as he paced around the kitchen. “If that were true there would only be one kind. Why does life have to be so difficult?”

“Well blame capitalism for your difficulties. Not parmesan cheese.”

“It’s all the cheeses. There are too many of them. It would be a lot simpler if they made one cheese so then we didn’t have to always choose.”

“So, you want to remove people’s freedom to choose what cheese they want so life can be simpler?” Maria asked shaking her head.

“Yes, we have too many options. I got lucky with you because you were my only option. I didn’t have a choice. You see? Simple.”

Maria got up from her chair, walked up to Joao, and gave him a hard slap across the face.

“Well, thankfully I enjoy my freedom to decide and choose what I want.” And with that final utterance of independence, Maria grabbed a few of her belongings and left the apartment that the two no longer shared.