Cross-culture clash

School parking lot guard spots me dithering outside my car, thinks I’m a soccer mom waiting to pick up a student. She yells, Yo, mama, you wanna move, So the other mamas can unload too? I looked around to see who she’s talking to, was I blocking someone’s way? No car door open. Like DeNiro, I point to myself and say, Are you talk into to me? She says, Yea, Mama, I’m talking to you. I say, I’m nobody’s mama, I teach here. She goes defensive, says, I don’t mean no disrespect. When I say Mama, it’s a sign of respect. I said, But I’m not ready to leave, I’m still organizing my stuff. She’s angry because I’m upset. I’m being hustled and I can’t find my fucking car keys. It’s as if we’re taking different languages, not English to English. I mentally translate the conversation into Spanish, which doesn’t help. It’s still out there. No common ground. I’m thinking maybe orange is the new black. Do I need a shiv? I  retrace my steps a third time. She thinks I’m stalling. It doesn’t dawn on me to tell her about the missing keys. I couldn’t hit the road—even if I wanted to. It’s quickly escalated into a lose-lose situation. Everything lost in translation. I find my car keys in the back seat beneath a heap of poetry folders. Weird poetic justice. I jump in the car and take off up 280, still steaming at the 92 exit, wondering how it all so quickly went south. I pass a pylon of cormorants sunning themselves on the San Mateo Bridge, and say hello to the blue-eyed boys preening themselves against the concrete. The color of their eyes proves that blue is better for seeing in reflected water, you’d think their feathers too would be as blue as the ocean’s dreams.