Combatting prejudice, one taco at a time

Photo by Arturo Ochoa on Unsplash

My two friends and I are sitting at one of the dozens of picnic tables surrounded by taco trucks, the brilliant Mexican paper decorations (papel picado) fluttering overhead. We’ve just arrived with a contingent of 300+ cyclists, many on stretch bikes or other creative contraptions. It’s a Tuesday ritual in our town to ride from the college to the taco trucks, our group filling up several neighborhood blocks with music and laughter as we traverse the city.

The rest of our table-mates are construction workers, including P., a friend I met at the ride a few months ago. He says, “I thought lesbians hated men,” in response to me asking him if I could move closer to him on the bench so my wife could join us.

I counter P.’s assumption about lesbians hating men with, “Straight women who date men hate them. I don’t have any reason to because I don’t date them.” He smiles, his handlebar mustache twitching upward, and pats the bench next to him. I move closer to make room for my wife.

Just the week before, P. found out from a mutual acquaintance that I’m a lesbian. Per my friend’s report, P. seemed unperturbed by that fact, but we are not one-hundred-percent sure of his attitude about gay people. He does have a homophobic friend who rides with him and who is now sitting at our table. Fortunately, he sits at the far end. I sign to my wife (who is Deaf), “Have a seat,” indicating the bench next to me. Then say over the men’s banter, “This is my wife, S.”

All of the men stare at her, I think, “Likely out of curiosity rather than animosity,” but you never know. One of the men waves at her with his hand, which is missing its ring finger. He says, “Guess I can’t talk with my hands,” and chuckles.

Then two more men at the table lift their hands in the air, both of them missing fingers. They start comparing notes on how their digits went missing. They start laughing so hard that the bench we share wobbles.

P.’s friends, including the homophobe, still cannot take their eyes off of S. and start asking how to sign things in American Sign Language. As usual, they request the “dirty” signs. I have never understood why people do this. I mean, are you going to meet a Deaf person (or any person) for the first time and say, “Hi, motherfucker?!” Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask how to say, “Hello” or “Nice to meet you?”

On a positive note, their curiosity about S. sweeps away the issue of our sexual orientation. We enjoy the rest of our tacos, panuchos, burritos, and beer in raucous conversation and laughter. The aroma of sweet, cinnamon-dusted churros swirls through the gathering.

Then the horn sounds, indicating the start of the ride home, and we disperse to our bikes. Before getting on my bike, I switch on the string of rainbow lights wrapped around my bike frame and the heart-shaped taillight that flashes red.

I forget about this encounter until the following Taco Tuesday bike ride when P. pedals up next to me and asks, “Where’s S.?” referring to my wife. Any doubts I had about his acceptance dissipate. “She went home early.” He says “Aw,” in a disappointed tone, and rides ahead.

This exchange with the men at the table and the following week with P. asking after my spouse’s whereabouts, reinforces for me the idea that people who hate or ridicule a class of people find it much more difficult to do so once they meet and get to know someone from the reviled group. And so it goes, in these polarized and hate-filled days. I might not be doing much, but I am out there, spreading the love, one person at a time.