Locals
By Dave and Jaja

Newly back in the U.S., we were reveling in a feeling of belonging. We felt like we were part of the local scene, back in our own country. Locals, at last! It was a heady feeling.

Along with our feeling of belonging, came a feeling of warmth. Summer. But, without winter temperatures to keep DRIVER's bilge cold, our "refrigeration" had failed, and we needed to visit the grocery store regularly to keep the milk flowing.

We had stopped in "for a few things" and were now standing in the express line waiting to check out. There was a problem up ahead at the register, so I took the girls to the rest room while Dave waited it out. To my surprise, when I reappeared, Dave was still in the exact same place, and the line behind him now extended down the length of the grocery store. The cashier was new. Even though the grocery store boasted 10 or 12 separate check out counters, only two of these were operated. Line psychology is an intricate study in America, and I had ample time to observe the present case. But, since I was part of this case study, my interest was not altogether unbiased.

If there had been a foreign tourist behind us in line, I would have felt somehow responsible for the wait. I began to understand how locals in other countries felt when we visited their homeland. Cozy in our own culture, I struck up a casual conversation with the lady behind us, something on the lines of: "Wow, I can't believe this is taking so long..." She answered amicably in a thick Maine accent, and we chatted to pass the time.

The lady in front of us had on a big hat. She was waiting with her items displayed on the conveyor belt. The lady with the problem was stoically ignoring the growing line behind her.

Suddenly, a new cashier appeared at the neighboring check out. Panic ensued. The lady who had been three customers behind was the first to catch wind of this new development. She angled her basket in for the kill--first to the register!

"Excuse me," Dave said tersely, "but this other lady was in front of you." Dave indicated the lady with the hat.

I cannot describe the look on the face of the basket-pushing lady. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it when she noticed the look on Dave's face, as well as the defiant stares of all the other people she had pushed in front of. She turned her basket in defeat.

My friend behind us was ecstatic. "Good job!" she beamed at Dave. "Where are you from anyway?"

"North Carolina," said Dave.

"You're almost O.K.," she continued enthusiastically, "even though you're not locals." Then she dropped her voice to a stage whisper and looked around theatrically. "But don't tell anyone I said that!"

In a teasing tone I said, "We're going to move here and become locals just to spite you!"

"It don't matter how long you live here," she said playfully, looking me in the eye. "You'll never be locals." She laughed to show she meant no harm.

I was reminded of this dialog a few weeks later when we registered our kids in school. The principal told us he was happy to have our kids. We told him that we wanted to settle down; to give our kids a sense of belonging in the local community. "Oh," he said, grinning, "You'll never be natives. I've been here ten years and I'm still considered a new arrival!"

Wow, I thought. Even if our kids lived here their whole lives they would always be "from away".

Teiga turned to me and asked: "Mommy, where are we native of?"

I shrugged. "The World, I guess."