Don't be a tourist
I guess my mom's and my conversation was pretty indicative of how they always are. It's difficult to get her to see my point of view sometimes. Even more difficult when I get angry.
"It just gets me so angry to see those people like that and then the tourism. Someone is getting rich off of that tourism."
"If stuff like that pisses you off so much, go do something about it."
"I can't do anything."
"Go to Mexico and hold babies. Work in an orphanage. Stop being a tourist if you hate it so much." My mom loves babies.
"I just like it better in the islands. The people there are poor but they're happy. They make do with what they have."
I love my mother. She has the biggest heart of anyone that I know. Sometimes I just catch myself thinking, same tourism, different place.
I guess I found myself thinking about Ricardo. While we would stand at the backline, making these high-maintenance salads for these high-maintenance wives of Evanston ("Half the dressing, tossed. Could you chop the Romaine smaller, please?" "Oh, I meant Ginger Soy, not Shallot Sherry. See, I wanted the fat free.") he told me about his home in Mexico. His eyes got that far away dreamy kind of look, a little more wet than usual. I know Ricardo came to America to make money. I also know that Ricardo dreams about returning to Mexico to open a restaurant. He's very good with his hands.
There's no doubt in my mind he'd be happy, he'd make do with what he'd have.
"It just gets me so angry to see those people like that and then the tourism. Someone is getting rich off of that tourism."
"If stuff like that pisses you off so much, go do something about it."
"I can't do anything."
"Go to Mexico and hold babies. Work in an orphanage. Stop being a tourist if you hate it so much." My mom loves babies.
"I just like it better in the islands. The people there are poor but they're happy. They make do with what they have."
I love my mother. She has the biggest heart of anyone that I know. Sometimes I just catch myself thinking, same tourism, different place.
I guess I found myself thinking about Ricardo. While we would stand at the backline, making these high-maintenance salads for these high-maintenance wives of Evanston ("Half the dressing, tossed. Could you chop the Romaine smaller, please?" "Oh, I meant Ginger Soy, not Shallot Sherry. See, I wanted the fat free.") he told me about his home in Mexico. His eyes got that far away dreamy kind of look, a little more wet than usual. I know Ricardo came to America to make money. I also know that Ricardo dreams about returning to Mexico to open a restaurant. He's very good with his hands.
There's no doubt in my mind he'd be happy, he'd make do with what he'd have.