Intersections

It was almost 60 years ago; I was 14. Sitting in Mrs. Herman’s classroom, I absorbed plane geometry. “Two lines that are not parallel share one and only point in common,” she might have said. She must have been in her 50’s, and she lectured with a smile and energy as if in love with her subject. The circles that she drew on the chalkboard were perfect – made from a length of twine that she used to draw one or two arcs of a circle’s circumference. She was always very kind to me, and I fondly remember her face and smile.

There are many intersections in our lives, but since the courses of those lives are most often meandering rather than rectilinear, those intersections share more than one point in common. Tonight, we prepared a dinner of store-bought tamales with salsa, canned refried beans, a flour tortilla, a pickled Serrano pepper and Cotija cheese. The grated Cotija was sprinkled over the refried beans in a manner reminiscent of Oaxacan breakfasts that have Oaxaca cheese grated over black beans. I felt that I was at an intersection.

Those of us who are the first-generation offspring of immigrant parents are always living in the intersection. We speak and listen at the intersection of two or more languages. We hear and dance to the melodies and rhythms at the intersection of two or more traditions. We taste and enjoy the delicacies of intersecting cuisines. Everything in our lives stands at the intersection of cultures.

Truth be told, this sense of intersectionality probably applies to everyone – not just the children of immigrants. Each of us feels the harmony or dissonance of intersecting cultures. It is the same for the rhythms of our lives.

This evening’s dinner looked like this.