Meryl Was Right

I am at the cafe next to the university where I could’ve only dreamed of attending. I feel so out of place. Why? Everyone seems so confident. They are comfortable with their place. Meryl shakes her head, no. Says I’m projecting. Oldies from the 50’s-70’s buzz loudly over the speaker. But over the commotion of espresso shots being pulled and half a dozen conversations, there is one voice that is unique. It rises and falls with distinct clarity.

One of these things is not like the other.

The voice is singing- off-key. But it is not singing the song blaring over the speakers. The song is in Spanish and the voice is full of joy, contentment. They love this song. I can’t see them, but their labor feels light.

Play it. Play it over the sound system. I don’t want to listen to the oldies. I want to hear the music that makes you sing it out loud over the $17 salads and protein bowls that you prepare.

Then I realize that there aren’t many of nosotros here. Those of us that are here are behind the register, in the kitchen, dirty dishes, garbage bags in hand.

What does it mean that I’m not there with you, laboring, but I’m here as a patron, instead? I feel it again, out of place. Unconfidently holding this space.

One of these things is not like the other.

Meryl was right.