Consuela, Part IV

http://hykez87.deviantart.com/art/La-Cucaracha-162143843?q=gallery%3Ahykez87%2F6386318&qo=17

Many moons ago, I lived in a section of East Flatbush that's been quaintly re-named "Kensington". It was a no-man's land, as far as Brooklyn goes. The nearest supermarket had saw dust on the floor, and the local bakery was Eastern European. There was a Kosher deli around the corner from the subway, a pizza place, a video rental store, an Irish bar, and that's about it. 

I lived there with a few college cohorts, because my aunt had an apartment that she left behind when she moved to be close to my dad. The market was soft, so the apartment sat empty until I occupied it post-college. It helped launched my career and those of my friends, because we split the maintenance fee as our rent. We would not have been able to live in the NYC area without it.

This was no hipster haven like Williamsburg pre-gentrification, with cool, arty lofts and warehouse spaces. It stayed an ethnic pocket that was not sophisticated. I was reminded of that every morning, when a car pulled up to the apartment building across the street blaring its' horn. It wasn't just any car noise, it played the opening ditty from "La Cucaracha". Several times. And every morning the windows slammed open, as the neighbors yelled curses at the driver in the car for disturbing their mornings' sleep. Welcome to the 'hood, honey.

Don't get me wrong, I schlepped to my low paying job via the local subway line, the only one in that neighborhood, for an hour each way every day, because the apartment was perfect for us at that time. There were doormen for security, and we were on a high floor. But this was deep in the heart of Brooklyn, not some fancy West Side joint, and we do shit differently here. There's less fake attitude, more noise, less political correctness, and a whole lot of real life. 

I remembered it yesterday clearly, when I heard a car zoom down my block blaring the same groovy "La Cucaracha" horn. What did I do? The exact same thing I did then—I went to the window to watch the spectacle. Unlike my Kensington years, no lady stepped out of the building across the street, dressed in a nurse's aide uniform, like they used to wear back in the day. And that was my Consuela moment. What's yours?

Consuela Wins Again

Like any New Yorker, I have my favorite pizza joint (Smiling Pizza in Park Slope, Brooklyn on 7th Avenue), and they are reliable. I love my neighborhood place; they make great pies and there's always a good vibe when you go there. They are actual Italians from Italy, not a t.v. show like The Jersey Shore. But, on one dark and stormy night, something went horribly awry. The conditions were stressful for any delivery person, and that fateful night, my paisan language skills went right out the car window. I had five achingly excruciating back-and-forth phone calls between the pizza place and the driver, explaining over and over the differences between a number street and a number avenue. It did not go well. 

At one point, I was sitting in the stairwell looking at the front door of the building, like any hard-up college freshman, thinking "What happened?" Minutes before, I had the last painful exchange with my head against the wall drawing numbers with my finger onto it, desperate to communicate with the driver. When he finally showed up, all was forgiven. He looked like a drowned puppy, so I tipped him heavy. Consuela The Overlord wins again.

Consuela, Part II

I had a delightful chat today in an online group about Franco-Normande language roots. Yeah, etymology is pretty nerdy, but I am a bibliophile. Anyway, someone mentioned the informality with American names, and how we address one another. To this European, our former President "Jimmy" Carter seemed impossibly impolite and immature for using a boyish name, given that he's such an impressive public figure. Of course we respect our authority figures! We also use formal addresses with teachers, religious figures, political leaders, and other authority figures, as the situation dictates.

It brought me back to the brief time I had to live in a small German town for business, working in the company's atelier with the other artists and designers. Employees there used last names only, on the phone and in meetings. The head of the company is called "Herr" quite loudly, every time he is seen or greeted. It was still jarring to me a month after working there, because I had only heard it in documentaries about Nazism and Herr Hitler. My European co-workers thought it quite funny the first time they heard me greet the company president by first name. Given his rep as a ladies man, who knows what they thought of this informality between us.

Back home on U.S. soil, we hosted a German co-worker for a couple of weeks. At the time we were a mini United Nations: two gay men and a lesbian (all vocally out of the closest), a Jamaican accountant, a Puerto Rican receptionist, a book keeper from India, a Eurasian editor, and whatever nationality people think I am, which is usually French. She was charmed by our meeting round table, and the freedom with which we spoke. Since it was a very small branch of an overseas company, anyone in the office could pitch new ideas. And we called each other by first names, because it would be sheer lunacy for an open society like ours that is comprised of immigrants to keep track of every country on the planet's sometimes elaborate greeting rituals.

So, how does Consuela feature? Well, she IS our go-to symbol for cross-cultural snafus. If you're ever in doubt while travelling around our beautiful land, please know that it's more than acceptable to address an American you meet informally by their first name. 

That's democracy.