My Name Is Not “Interpreter”

Abstract

The day I completed my sociology dissertation, I felt like a king. I was one step closer to finally accomplishing my dream of becoming a physician-scientist. To complement this feeling of royalty, my wife and I found ourselves invited to an upscale restaurant-a faculty member's treat for this joyous occasion.We excitedly got ready and we looked sharp: she, resplendent in a lovely cocktail dress, and I, sporting my skinny suit, the gray one-the one that made me feel like a GQ model.We ate. We drank. We laughed! We graciously thanked our host for the perfect celebration to a hard-won life event and left the restaurant. Locked arm-in-arm, my wife and I waited for our car at the valet curb with the other couples in their fine attire.We watched the hard-working valets, who I realized look like my family members and friends back in East Los Angeles. They shuttled back and forth from their wooden kiosk to the luxury cars belonging to people who do not look like the valets, who do not look like me.Rapid exchanges of keys, slips of paper, and money. I admired their efficiency.A Jaguar snaked up to the curb.A woman dressed in a sparkling black gown stepped out. She bypassed the bustling valet dock, rushed past the two couples in front of us, stopped for a second in front of me, and dropped her keys into my somehow receiving hand.Before my jaw had time to drop away from my face in awe and protest, she walked away without a word. She didn't even wait to get a slip from me-the person she mistook for the valet. My face turned beet red. My heart was pounding. I felt enraged, frustrated. I became paralyzed and mute. I was dumbstruck, mortified. I was hurt.In silence, I walked to one of the attendants and handed him the woman's car keys. "No, these aren't mine. We are waiting for our car." He looked at me and I looked at him and something passed between us. Recognition. It's probably not the first time he had seen this happen to a Latino man. He nodded his head and placed the keys with the others.Not even five minutes later, with just one couple ahead of us in line, another well-dressed woman approached me. She handed me her car keys in almost an identical fashion. This woman, however, recognized the pain on my face. She quickly took back her keys."I'm sorry," she said.The woman behind us whispered to her partner, "Oh my god." They turned their heads away from us as if to somehow shield their embarrassment for me, from me.The drive back home was silent and stiff. What do I say? What can I say? I was at the pinnacle of my celebration, and with one swift action, I was dismissed. I was made invisible. I was negated.

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