I had only been 10 years old, it was early Saturday morning, excited to go out and get breakfast with my grandparents. As it became a tradition for us that almost every other Saturday we would always go out to this one specific diner on 103rd St on Broadway. However when we went this particular morning it was closed. I had been so disappointed since I had always looked forward to getting my thick stack of pancakes with a little scoop of butter sitting on top melting away, with a big hot chocolate topped with a swirl of whipped cream. My grandfather thought and said, “Hijo, let’s try the diner across here.” He had been like a second father to me, always caring, making me feel safe. Naturally I had followed joyfully, as a kid I would never order my own food so I’d mind my business and be oblivious to my surroundings. Never really noticing the small details and interactions until we crossed the street.

At first everything went smoothly, we were attended relatively quick but once we sat down in our little red booth, things took a turn. Our waitress, an older white lady, roughly in her mid 40’s, with her hair tied into a bun and grey strands poking out. Never before had I seen a waiter so irritated to see us, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Maybe she had a bad morning? 

Looking back and thinking about the people around us, me and my grandparents had been the only colored people inside the 70’s styled diner. We were surrounded by pale white people. Some gave unpleasant stares from tables away, I would wonder if we had done something wrong. Although I was just a kid, I knew our waiter was unwelcoming, desperately clicking her pen, almost begging for us to finish ordering. I could tell she had been judging my grandpa for how he spoke. Speaking with a thick Spanish accent, stuttering at times trying to find the right words, the waitress would try to dumb down our order and use hand gestures to symbolize the food, with a nasty look on her face. He had only tried to order a hamburger for himself, french toast with a side of fruits for my grandmother, and pancakes with orange juice for me. My grandmother was just as helpless as me, she knew not a single lick of English. Although I knew how to speak English fluently I said nothing… I felt my chest tighten with each word that came out of my grandfather’s mouth, I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or the fear of speaking up. Thoughts rushed through my head, hearing voices telling me, “Speak for him” “Everyone’s looking at us…” “What do I do?” I felt so panicked although I was as silent as a goldfish, swimming in circles going nowhere. 

In the end, I watched, not saying a single word acting oblivious. Feeling so horrible deep down inside. Waiting until our food arrived, believing it would solve all our issues. My food came out as ordered, perfectly as ordered yet it tasted so bland. All I could taste was the doughy texture break apart in my mouth as I chewed it, being washed away with the tangy taste of the orange juice. I could see the distraught look in my grandmother’s eyes, frustrated yet worried my grandpa laid his hand upon hers and without a word she had relaxed herself. I hadn’t realized neither of my grandparents enjoyed their meal, until I heard my grandma say, “Nunca jamas volvamores a ir a comer alli.”(Never again will we ever eat there) As we left the diner. 

Until days later, I had asked my grandmother, “Por que estabas tan angry?” (Why were you so angry?) in my poor Spanish. She told me not only were those white Americans judging us but had even gotten our orders wrong, the hamburger my grandfather got wasn’t made as requested, he had asked kindly for no pickles and no cheese and it was all ignored. My grandpa disliked pickles and cheese with a passion, yet he chose not to argue over it. He accepted what was given and ate it even though he disliked his meal entirely. I realized he did it all for me, just so I could feel at ease and enjoy my food. This frustrated me to my core, that I had no idea.

It wasn’t the first time, or the last time me and my family have been judged for looking and speaking a certain way. No matter how insulting we believed it was best to ignore the remarks made, over the years I’ve grown and learned not to be embarrassed. But embrace my culture, my family for who they are, how they speak, and how they look. Although it is scary, the only way to push through is by being courageous, to develop a voice to speak up for those who can’t and for yourself, and to be proud of where you come from.