Borderland: "an uncertain, intermediate district, space, or condition." According to Dictionary.com.
An intermediate? As in something that is not meant to remain, something temporary. The Market is a borderland filled with immigrants, visitors, families...people. It is a moment in time when a man from India can sell his beans and seeds next to a man from Nigera selling soaps and hair products. The market is a place were fish are as available as apples and foreign fruits lie next to bottles of beer. This was the marketplace that I visited.
After I was done looking things over in this massive building my limbs were cold and the sun was out so I decided a walk wouldn't hurt. I had about 20 minutes left to explore, and thats exactly what I did. I walked in and out of weaving streets searching for areas that would allow the sun to warm me the most. I practiced my minimal Italian at a bakery selling the most delicious smelling doughnuts. She was an immigrant, her Italian sounded unfamiliar and she rolled certain letters quickly off her tongue. She smiled warmly, but was quite. I think we both felt odd not understanding one another. I went into an Asian food store as well. This was a completely different feeling. Not only could I not read a single package but I became completely relient on pictures. There were soft noodles and veggies, then it must be vegetable flavored broth with noodles...right?
When I walked out of the store and continued to follow the fall of the sun on the sidewalk I found an area almost exclusively middle eastern. Everyone smiled and stared blankly at me as I walked past them. It was not only immigrants among immigrants, it was now people versus people, insiders versus outsiders, visitors versus locals, I felt uneasy. I don't think it was who they were or what they looked like but merely that I was surrounded by a culture and a language I knew nothing about. They would speak to me and I was stare back and grin a bit, did they think I was rude?
The marketplace was the most comfortable place I was that day. Everyone was aware of their differences and didn't seem to care at all. Even there I am the outsider though. I am the one who isn't a part of the action and can only stand there, point and smile. The only moment I was in understanding with a local was when we followed me repeating "I love you to much americana." Was I that obvious? Am I that American? Even with my thick black hair and darkened skin, am I that different looking from the Italian women?
It is similar to the story we read in our multicultural short story book. She was a part of the masses in India, a part of her wanted to be among them and the other part of her wanted to create a massive separation between the two. I know now what she was feeling. I want people to see me here and think I am one of them, to give me the local prices to think I speak their beautiful language, yet there is a piece of me that misses home which wants to be the American that they see fully, and be proud. The light beer and peanuts girl was right, you can want to be two things at once, but I also think that you always want one more then other.
If I had to choose, to be a member of the market as my own type of immigrant, I would choose to be an American one. I love my home, my family, my culture and my country. But for a few moments every once in a while it feel good to immerse yourself so much so that you begin to feels like you are a part of it, until you don't again.
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