When I first read the headline “Europe Relaxes Rules on Sale of Ugly Fruits and Vegetables,” I couldn’t believe I was not reading The Onion but the International News section of the New York Times with the dateline from Brussels. Apparently, “misshapen fruit and vegetables won a reprieve on Wednesday from the European Union as it scrapped rules banning overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves.” I was relieved to find that food not meeting “European norms” will still be allowed into the country--with a warning that the food is “substandard,” of course.
It is good to know that Europe has begun to embrace diversity. In an act of tolerance and acceptance, twenty six types of marred fruits and vegetables will now be legally available for purchase. The unprejudiced food markets will help the European economy as well as alleviate the hunger of millions. Such an act of benevolence, though countered by roughly half of nations under the European Union, has shocked me. The reprieve can only leave me begging Europe for more of its selective kindness.
Europe took a big step forward when it scrapped the law against abnormal and weird-looking food. Could Europe maybe extend its recent unbias to human beings as well? Far-fetched, I know, but maybe the European nations will make a connection between that twisty carrot and that man from Somalia. If unique is the new uniform, then maybe the Italians won’t stare at the Asian-Italians on the bus or the Spanish won’t glare at the Russian couple speaking Russian on the street. French Muslims might be able to wear their burkas in school and all Albanians or Romanians won’t be labelled as pickpockets.
My school in Viterbo and a local Italian high school sponsored a forum where we could practice unfamiliar languages and compare cultures. In December, thirty teenagers sat in a circle, pondering how we were similar. “We all celebrate Christmas?” an Italian student offered, gracefully practicing her British accent. Enthusiastic agreement was met by two shy nos: one Italian and I both shamefully admitted that we had never celebrated Christmas. With persistent urgings from her English teacher, the girl explained to the group in halting English how her family would celebrate Eid-ul-Adha that December instead of Christmas. I wanted to ask her where she would find a mosque. I wanted to ask her how it feels to be the only Muslim. Does she hide her religion to evade taunts? She turned her head to me and gave the pointy-eyebrow-bulging-eye sign common amongst students desperately but subtly asking for a life line. Eager to help her out, I began my lecture. The Italian teenagers were unimpressed with the miracle (burning oil versus immaculate conception?) and the dreidel seemed pointless and boring. The description of sweets and presents were met with curt approval. The five American students were blasé, concentrating instead on my Italian grammar and pronunciation. Luckily, I had rehearsed this speech already to my host family, so only one category of alien revealed itself through my lecture.
Brooklyn is known for its squat and stocky mass of dense, squishy dough: the bagel. The bagel is known as Jew food--with shmear, of course. Growing up in bagel-ridden Brooklyn, I felt the Jewish presence all around me. The triumphant beige synagogue with its adjacent complex was just a few blocks away and I never hid my religion. I would compare with my classmates our favorite Jewish holidays and “bar mitzvah season” came and went like a 90’s fad. I was unprepared for the role as the Jewish representative. I did not know the entire Israeli history or even a recipe for Haroset! For shame, for shame.
What should I have done when my host sister Sarah’s friend Simone once showed me a swastika pin his father gave him? Sarah’s rowdy group of friends and I had just finished our pizzas and we were dawdling in a piazza, waiting for the next morning to begin. Simone was not one of the neo-Nazi skinhead teens that lived in Viterbo. His hair was long and straightened: a typical goth just like the others in the “Black Label Society” to which Sarah also belonged. He had given me jewelry and had always shouted my name whenever he saw me, playing with the very American ‘er’ in Goldberg. We had been friends. I quickly diverted my eyes from the pin and looked at my sister. She tried to explain to him the significance. He shot her down. I opened my mouth, breathed out the cold air, and that was that. Should I have ranted about my grandfathers in Auschwitz and the tortuous three years my grandmother and aunt endured as children? Probably. But maybe I was looking at those jagged and geometric lines as an American Jew. Maybe I was being overly critical about the sharp shape of two pieces of metal placed on top of each other. It’s just a symbol, Simone said, and put the pin back in his pocket. The Hindus use it too.
But now that the bulgy pears are bitten with the same or almost the same delight as a juicy and perfect one, I can imagine walking the streets of Italy without passing the “Viva Hitler!” declarations, or even bringing my friend home for dinner without my Italian host sisters commenting on how he looks like a squirrel. I can now imagine my host family introducing me to guests as “Aliza” instead of “The American, who is Jewish. Oh, her name is Aliza. With a z.” The possibilities seem enormous (perhaps a liberal immigration policy?) but it is too early to lift my hopes.
It’s just a banana with abnormal curvature. It’s natural and the Hawaiians don’t seem to mind.