Groceries and Health, Part 2: Shasta and Ervad

One more thing about the grocery store . . .

When we got in line to buy our groceries, the checker looked like he was 14. MAYBE 15. But definitely not able to drive.

It was 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night. This kid had school that day. He would have school tomorrow. I did not want to ask what time he started, or when he would get off.

But when I got up to the front of the line, I asked: "How has your day been?"

He stared at me.

"How has your day been?"

He looked around, and back at me: "MY day?"

"Ya. How has your day been?"

He smiled. "Oh, it's been OK."

I guess he was not used to being talked to. The person before me had gotten very upset with him about some things, or took items out of her cart and put them on top of the candy shelves. She was upset at this kid because some national chain had over-priced their milk, in her opinion.

The kid -- Ervad, his name tag said -- apologized and removed them from her bill.

I helped him bag the groceries for a few minutes, until another young person -- Shasta, also looking around 15 -- came over to help. We laughed at my bagging skills. Somehow, I got my bags all wadded up -- Shasta just took them from me and smiled. "It's OK, I do it too sometimes."

I asked her how her day had been going, and she rolled her eyes: "Ohhhhh, you know."

"Long day, huh?"

"I've got to be here until ten o'clock. And I've got a paper due tomorrow."

We talked for a few minutes about it while bagging the groceries. I found out that her paper was on one of my favorites: The Great Gatsby. I told her that I thought it was one of the greatest novels of all time.

"I hate it," she said. "I've got to write a four-page thesis when I get home."

I can understand hating a lot of things. But THIS!?!? The Great Gatsby!?!? I couldn't believe it.

As I left, I wished her good luck. On my way back to the car, I imagined what my thesis would be for the book: a story about hope and despair, unfulfilled dreams and elusive desires. I imagined the waves at the end, the beating oars . . . and couldn't help but understand why it would sound so much less exotic to Shasta, who is unable to vote and yet working nights to help her family get by. Is hers going to be a story of elusive desires and unfulfilled dreams? Wasted potential and squandered time?

I am writing this while she is elsewhere, trying to write about what makes Gatsby “great” or how the American Dream of 1920s compares to the strange reality of the early 2000s. She is tired from a day of school followed by a day of work; how will she write a good paper? has she been set up for success by her school? her family? our society?

I hope that she does not give up. If she does, I hope that her teacher will understand. If she does not do well on the paper, I hope she will realize that it was not because she was incapable or unable . . . I hope that she realizes how much she has to offer.

Goodnight, Shasta. Goodnight, Ervad. I hope that you have a good day tomorrow.