What is the taste? The taste of difference.
The difference of skin of color, the curl of the hair, the culture, the body fat, the blood pressure, how to handle mean weather, or an opinion. I felt alienated when I had a different opinion from the majority of the group. And it happened a lot in my life, as if I was a fish whose eyes were behind the head or something. I couldn’t take my eyes to the same spots with the others. Or I wouldn’t. So my seat has been often the lonely one, like a tangy fruit among the sweet juicy ones.
One of my recent friends insisted on forming a book club of four women having the same ethnic background. I didn’t know the other two. She said that we were a similar age group and lots of things were common, so it would be fun. Well… the first book was a thick yellow book that wasn’t quite my taste of reading. She gave me a copy as a present a few days before. The book that I really didn’t have any interest in lifting the cover. I could guess already from the beginning to the ending from the movie poster that was made several years before. But, well… let’s try, I thought. She was enthusiastic, excited with the new gang, so I hopped on her bus and rode along. I read all. But the bus route wasn’t mine. I passed the several stops hoping that the bus might pass my type of landscape or I could adjust the new boring scenery, but the ride became a fast downhill to the ditch. All I got from it was a mouthful of mud and a soiled overcoat. Luckily, my inside was intact, not wounded or injured. I crawled out of that vehicle and looked around… and wondered… how? I already knew this ending from the beginning. I just fooled myself to believe in the same outlook of our shapes and the same cultural background would match our inner realms also. Then, the dirt in my mouth and the sharp tanginess in theirs.
Silence has been my old friend. But it talks. Very loud inside.
It has a scent too, like a laundry fresh out of the dryer, like a well-ironed white oxford shirt, or like the snowfield spread wide to the horizon in the early morning.
I can swallow any opinion about politics, real estate development nearby, dinner menus, vacation plans, choosing the right college for my son, the length of my hair, the best way of boiling pasta, but I cannot do that in one thing. My opinion about the lines I read. My silence that suits great to the blue sky would transform into many clouds, the dark thick layers charging lightning and thunder that would drench everything around me with its mighty volume of precipitation. Then, it would be too late to dry the stuffed minds with cotton balls. They would be soaked to the core and have to drag the heavy wetness of my different opinion from theirs. Difference is fine. It won’t give them chill if they shed those deluged minds. The rain will pass.
<February 13th, 2019>