Welcome to the life of a Beaner — America
While this statement may sound a little sarcastic or aggressive, it truly is a warm welcome. What I personally know to be the life of a beaner is a wonderful life! I have fond memories of Beaner Life. I remember, and any Mexican can relate, the constant reminder of turning off the beans, adding water to the beans, check the beans, mash the beans, “I can’t I left beans on the stove”, etc. We serve beans with everything. Barbacoa (beef), Carnitas (pork), Pollo asado (chicken), Pescado Frito (fish), Nopales (Cactus), in burritos, tortas you name it, beans are the perfect partner.
I remember the few precious times when I was able to sit with my mom and Tias sorting beans. I was not usually invited into their circle because they had adult conversations of which children could not hear or interrupt. Mostly chismè. Like a true Mexican, my mom bought beans in bulk — not pre-washed or sorted. We sat in a circle, apron on our laps and a pot in the middle of our circle. We would place the good beans into the pot and discard the bad ones.
When my Abueliita had grown ill, I took some time off work to be with her in Mexico and help my Tia care for her. One day it occurred to me to help with the weekly cooking of beans. I thought it would be a good idea for Abuelita and I to have our own bean sorting experience. I set us up with beans, apron and pot. We had just started when my Tia came in from work. Surprised by our work, she quickly took the pot and beans then explained that Abuelita can’t sort beans anymore. She gets dizzy and sick. My Abuelita looked at me as if she had something so precious taken from her. That’s when I knew.
You see, we make a pot of beans on a weekly basis. Beans are a staple in our homes. When we literally have nothing else, we have beans and we make do. When I offer you a warm welcome to the life of a beaner it is sincere and truly from the heart. Yes, we know beans are good for your heart and sometimes make you fart but all kidding aside they are also a reminder of our unity and commonality. We are all in this together and adding some beans to the mix, well then it just makes us all beaners. I welcome you and hope that they bring you and your families together as they have done for mine.
“I can’t. I left the beans on the stove” is the best. One day my mom was shopping with my Tia Carolina. They decided that they needed more T-shirts so they stop at one of those 5 for $10 shops. My mom usually shops behind a cart to help keep her balance and give a gentle nudge to people who might be in her way. This store did not have carts, so she carefully worked her way through the aisles of $2 T-shirts.
When suddenly she stumbles on the edge of a rack into another and falls face first onto the floor. She gashed her forehead badly. Luckily, my Tia is a nurse and ripped some T-shirts off the rack to apply direct pressure to help stop the bleeding. Meanwhile, the store manager has dialed 9–1–1, counted the shirts on my mom’s face and assured them that help was on the way.
The paramedics arrive and, of course, my mom knows the lead EMT. She was a young mother whose son went to school with my kids and, of course, my mom always made sure to feed him when he was over and, of course, made sure to send something home to his mom.The EMT carefully prepares my mom to take her to the nearest hospital and asks my Tia to hop onto the ambulance so that she can accompany my mom. My Tia quietly explains to my mom, “I can’t. I left beans on the stove”.
I realize that the term beaner is known to be directed at Mexicans specifically and is meant to be offensive. Like when I was in junior high, standing in a circle, someone suggested that we should plan on attending a party in Corona but was worried there may be too many beaners at the party then quickly followed with no offense. I looked around the circle curious about who might be offended and as I was about to take another toke realized it was me.
When I was in the 6th grade I was one of 10 Hispanics in the school — 2 of which were my brothers. I was originally from South Bay area where kids were integrated from South Central Los Angeles. My classroom was so diverse that I was often confused with Pacific Islander, Asian and Philipino classmates when grouped by ethnicity. It was beautiful! My new school was not as colorful.
My mom prepared our lunches for school because our new school did not have a kitchen with freshly cooked meals as we were accustomed to in the South Bay. One day at lunch, I unwrapped the most beautiful burrito. I heard from one end of my table a loud “Ew!” from the other end “Beaner!”. My neck sore and whiplashed from looking back and forth to see what the fuss was all about. I soon realized that I was the Ew! And the beaner! I grabbed my burrito and headed to the lavatory to eat my lunch.
I asked my mom could she please make me a boloney sandwich for lunch instead of burrito. Like the other kids. They had boloney sandwiches on white bread. She exclaimed, “Que es eso?”. “No, sin queso, por favor”. She went on to educate me on American Deli and if you must mix so many things into a meat and call it boloney then it can’t be good for you and white bread — “puro cochinero”. But not to worry she will fix me something that is not a burrito.
The next day there was a note on the counter next to a brown bag that read “aqui tienes tu sandwich. Luv you”. I had the best Dodge Ball game at recess that day. Then at lunch, my face still throbbing from the sting of the red rubber pelting I had just received (even though our teacher specifically demanded “No aiming at the face!”), I was happy because I was the last girl standing and I was ready for my well-deserved prize. I opened the bag and reached in for the yellow parchment paper. I slowly unwrap to discover the golden hue that spewed from the bread. I felt like Chavo del 8 when he finally gets his torta. When I hear from one end of the table “It’s a beaner sandwich!”. And it was the most beautiful beaner sandwich. It had beans, carefully sliced tomatoes, onions and the most amazing green from the thinly sliced avocadoes, criss crossed with the onions so that you would have a taste of both in each bite. And milanesa! Not baloney!
Yet, my tears and choked throat would not allow a taste. I left the table without my beaner sandwich and spent the rest of lunch in the restroom crying. At the end of the day as I was stepping up into the bus, Frank (Francisco) our janitor, ran up to me with a brown bag. He said, “Someone made this with lots of care and love. Don’t let it go to waste. No matter what anyone calls you or your sandwich.” His smile as he handed me the brown sack changed my life. It meant to me that it’s ok to be a beaner and eat beaner sandwiches. They are truly an expresion of love; in how they are prepared and shared.
Welcome to the life of a beaner America because, during the height of the Covid Pandemic, Mexicans weren’t the only ones buying beans — Enjoy!