Miles Two Down the Road
Ben Guerra/CL205
I walked out of my dorm at about one, silently cursing both the rebirth of freezing rain from the previous night and its effect on my already immobile car. While pathetically using my shovel as an ax to free my car from the ice, a fellow student noticed and empathetically helped me to continue my afternoon's task. I headed south on Park Street, and I once again noticed the abrupt change of landscape after passing Regent. It didn't become completely impoverished--it just lacked the financial prowess of a major university that had provided pristine facilities. I arrived at Mercado Marimar's half-full parking lot and entered with a mild, lingering apprehension. I at first felt like I stood out as a stereotypical college student, but was welcomed by the bright, warm environment that was a welcome contrast to the grayness outside. A woman working at the register greeted me. I considered striking a conversation, but it seemed as if she had retreated. I wondered whether she was embarrassed about a language barrier or if I had made her feel uncomfortable. Regardless, a welcoming aura remained and I began to browse the store. In the center was a large picnic table where a father and young son enjoyed a snack. There were five or so customers at the meat counter that seemed to be frequent customers. A few of the women seemed to know each other as well as the employees at the counter and struck a conversation. The tidbits that I heard were mostly in Spanish, but they evoked in me a feeling of camaraderie and nostalgia that reminded me of childhood trips to the local Italian grocery store. I noted that one of the women was perhaps only a few years older than me and dressed similarly, but also joined the conversation with the other women. Then, at one end of the store, I noticed another student working on the same assignment. We didn't talk, but continued exploring with a silent acknowledgement. A certain smell finally drew me towards an employee with a huge mound of yellow dough. I realized that he was making fresh tortillas with a tortilla press. My interest in cuisine took over and I asked how often they made the tortillas and where I could find them. He responded with "every Sunday", pointed me in the right direction, and asked if I spoke Spanish. I responded that I unfortunately did not, but he nodded understandingly. I then found the tortillas, some cheese, and Mexican sodas and purchased them (noting that the sales were written in Spanish). Before leaving, I said goodbye to the employees the at front of the store. I then got back into the car and returned the UW-Madison bubble. My trip to Mercado Marimar yielded many interesting observations that pushed me to think about the characteristics of this gathering place that lied beneath the surface. All of the employees and patrons of the store seemed to be of the Hispanic "race"--that is, except me and the other student--and spoke primarily in Spanish. It
seemed as if all of the customers came to this place to shop amongst people they knew and could relate with. The younger woman in the North Face jacket particularly interested me. Her clothing signaled that she was part of a higher socioeconomic class and a younger generation than her fellow customers, but still shopped and engaged as if at home in this small, family-owned Mexican grocery store. This suggested to me that this was a place where one-- even if part of a more "American" generation--could celebrate his or her heritage while simply running errands. Perhaps accentuated by this blustery Sunday, it seemed like a solace from the icy cold and dryness of the outside world, both literally and symbolically. I also considered the store's geographic position about two miles south of campus and how it is considered to be in a completely different geographic sector of Madison. I feel that this distinction is more racially and socioeconomically valid that it is geographically. Despite being so close, there seemed to be a complete lack of citizens from campus and other areas of Madison. This dichotomy--perhaps physically defined at Regent Street--was even present in the way I was responded to in the store. The employees were courteous, but there was an underlying force deeper than language that kept me (and the other UW student) from feeling completely comfortable and being completely trusted. This lack of political friendship and trust between races in Madison that is present in Mercado Marimar cannot be remedied by merely volunteering or donating to these areas. The people of South Madison need to feel as if we need them too--and we do. Remembering the kind student that had helped free my car from the ice earlier that day, I realized that this sense of community needed to continue past the rigid boundaries of campus. Those of us in the "whiter" areas need to be willing to help, but also aware that we are all need help to be freed from the ice sometimes. And I can't also help but notice that I learned more at Mercado Marimar than I had from a textbook in a very long time.