The Accidental Native by J.L. Torres Page A

salad, which must include heaps of mayo, eggs and, for that Spanish touch, red peppers and olives. The typical pies are served, ofcourse, but it wouldn’t surprise anyone to find some flan, tembleque or arroz con dulce as desserts.
    Erin was amused by all of this, and she committed the biggest faux pas: she ate very little. Wouldn’t touch the pasteles, nibbled at the rice, ate a sliver of turkey, and afterwards confessed to me, with a whiny voice, that she missed the traditional dinner. For some reason, that bothered me, and her finickiness did not go over well with either one of my parents.
    They were both pleasant, but the conversation was thin, too guarded for a holiday meal. My usually garrulous parents, who loved to tease and laugh, and on these occasions were known to get up and dance to a salsa tune playing on the stereo, remained as reserved and laconic as any WASP family ever seen on television or film. Erin had this stupid, fake smile screwed on her face the entire evening, even as she picked through the food, setting the red peppers and olives from the potato salad to the side. I wanted to bang my head against the table at one point.
    The only amusement for me, I hate to say, during the entire evening was watching Tío Bennie, the only other dinner guest, drink himself into a stupor, as he did every Thanksgiving. He wasn’t really an uncle, but my parents had known him for decades and I grew up calling him
tío
. After his wife died and he sunk into depression and alcohol, my parents occasionally invited him to weekend dinners and holiday meals. He would drink like a mad man, chugging beer after beer, and at one point while sprawling on a recliner would start blabbering and then crying. Soon after, he would fall into a sonorous sleep, his jowls shaking from the jagged breathing.
    â€œThat didn’t go like you wanted, did it?” Erin asked me on the drive back from Jersey. She had been quiet, staring out the window. Unusual for her; anytime I drove her car, she was super vigilant to the point that she sometimes made me so upset. I stopped and turned over the wheel to her.
    â€œYou think?” I answered.
    We both laughed, but it stung me a bit. I felt bad for Erin, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t apologize for my parents. She wasn’t exactly endearing herself to them. There had been some type of barrier in that dining room, where it came from I don’t know. But I knewthe silences and inability to converse freely went deeper than lack of topics. We were all liberal, well-educated, intelligent people, but something happened, and I did not know what.
    I visited my parents a week later. They had not mentioned anything about Thanksgiving, even in our telephone conversations that followed. I filed the incident under lack of chemistry, but when I sat down for a cup of coffee, both of them sat down at the kitchen table, hands folded, their faces solemn like someone had just died. They wanted to talk, my father said.
    â€œThat young woman, Erin,” my mother began. “She’s a good person and whatever decision you make we will respect. It is your lives, after all.”
    â€œBut,” my father interrupted, “she doesn’t exactly have the mancha de plátano.”
    This was the phrase for someone who looked Puerto Rican, or even Latino. So called because you can no easier rid yourself of your Puerto Rican look than erase a plantain stain.
    â€œI told you she was white.”
    â€œWhite? M’ijo, she’s like a walking bag of flour,” this from my liberal mother. They both laughed at this.
    â€œShe’s in dire need of some sun,” my father added.
    â€œThis is racist, you know that, right?”
    â€œAy, please. We think she’s all right. We’re just having fun at your expense.”
    â€œBut,” my father again interrupted, “have you really thought the possible consequences of marrying someone not of your