Taking the Cooperative out of the Co-Op

Having returned to Brooklyn from a gloriously sunny Thanksgiving in Guatemala, I felt thankful to be living in a country where I don't have to worry about driving at night, taking the bus, or being a single white female in an urban area. I also returned to an empty refrigerator, so I decided to head to the Park Slope Food Co-Op for healthy provisions. A steady diet of fried plantains and red wine not an un-puffy girl make.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I knew I was in trouble. The patina of my holiday started to fade the moment I heard the screech of a child followed by the dulcet tones of a mother trying to reason with a 3 year old. I just thought to myself "In Guatemala, I never once saw a child misbehaving...not even at the airport..." Granted, I also saw a lot of children doing a lot of manual labor, but still!

I went to the bulk goods section in search of oats and coffee. I laughed to myself thinking of how my cart sometimes looked like a hobo's shopping list as I approached the free trade coffee bins. In mid-dispense action, a cart clipped my ankle and I yelped in pain. The woman driving the cart looked at me and without a flicker of apology or embarrassment said "I need to get over there." I looked at her for a moment, took in her floor length poncho that probably cost a small fortune in a Woodstock boutique, and replied "So simply say, I beg your pardon, may I make my way past you. It's quite easy. Let me know I am in your way, and chances are very high I will accommodate your wish." She just grunted and whacked me again with her cart.

My mind raced through the whole week I was away and did not encounter one rude person. In fact, everyone I dealt with the entire time in Guatemala was incredibly friendly. At first I thought it was because they knew I was a foreigner, but it wasn't just in the service industry, it was everywhere. On the street, at the airport, at the local bar...Maybe I was deluding myself and maybe it was because I am not from the region. But the intense irony of buying Guatemalan coffee in a store where common courtesy is out the window struck me. In fact, I am sure that poncho could have been woven by the nimble hands of any one of the young women I saw in Antigua, Guatemala. They have very little, but they smiled. Why can't the privileged wearer of such do the same?