Personal Narrative: The Grocery Store

When my sister neglected to charge her MP3 player, she unknowingly evoked a drastic change in my life. Car rides to the distant land of Toronto were difficult enough, but without music playing softly in our ears, the one hour drive soon becomes a one hour torture session. But that fateful day, when on route to a wedding, I decided that conversation was perhaps the best substitute in situations such as these. The consequence of this decision came soon and swift when upon complaining of our lack of breakfast variety, my parents suggested we stop by a grocery store. However reasonable this suggestion was, I swear my heart skipped a beat. Or two. Possibly. My mother turned around in the front seat, and my ten year old eyes took in the confusion muddling her features. I understood. She didn't realize the importance of where we were going in that moment. We were heading to a wedding. Which meant we were in our Indian clothing. Which meant, by default, that going to the grocery store was an act similar to suicide after a childhood spent trying to assimilate.

I was able to picture it already. My worst dreams playing out because I didn't like our breakfast options. We would walk in, the family of four, and pick up cereal from the racks. The couple by the front door would pause while packing their groceries and stare at the long shirts and wide shalwar. The cashiers would look away, their cheeks flushed from the brightly dressed people in front of them. The family with the small children would start walking towards the fruits and vegetable aisles and away from the family who stood out like a sore thumb in their flashy clothes so different from their own. We would walk to the cashier and bag our groceries. Then we would leave. We would walk back to the car, and go to the wedding. The next morning I would have more breakfast variety, but it wouldn't be worth