Tortilla Politics and the New Texas

 

Tortilla Politics in the New Texas 

 

I grew up in a Mexican village. Simmonsville. How, you may ask does a Mexican village end up with a name like “Simmonsville?” Well, it was full of, well, Mexicans. Now I know the Woke Folks will take exception to my use of the word “Mexicans,” but hear me out. 

 

We didn’t have “Illegals.” The word, “illegal” implies that something or someone is “illegal.” A citizen of the Republic of Mexico who comes to pick fruits and vegetables during harvest time is not “illegal.” He’s a “National!” He resides in the Nation of Mexico unless he’s picking said avocados in Uvalde. Then he is a national. And Simmonsville was chock full of Nationals. 

 

If you live around a lot of Mexicans, you tend to eat a lot of Mexican food. They don’t dine on Crêpes Suzette. They think Suzette is some gringo chick from Dallas with a rich daddy. The eat anything with a tortilla, beans, and cheese. I remember playing with my Chicano friends and their mama would make us lunch. And they didn’t buy pre-packaged anything! They cooked the beans (pintos) and mixed up Masa flour in a big stone bowl. From there they’d hand you a hot tortilla right off the grill and fill it with whatever! Don’t ask, you don’t wanna know. 

 

There is nothing better in this world than eating a warm tortilla with J.B. Hernandez’s kid sister. Mexican girls are born full grown, I just thought you’d like to know that. All the Anglo girls looked like Olive Oyl. Do the math. 

 

Warm tortillas are one of my fondest memories. For real. I’m not joking. Forward sixty-two years and we find ourselves in the HEB Supermarket in beautiful downtown Killeen Texas. Well, it’s not really downtown. Uh, parking’s bad there. Yeah. Parking. Anyway we picked up some turkey salad and twenty pack of HEB tortillas right off of Mamasita’s grill. Talk about Déjà vu! I crappith thee not! It wasn’t sex, but it was damn close! It was a plus morning. That was breakfast. For lunch I usually have a Spam sandwich complimented by a cup of Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup as a tip of the hat to my White Trash DNA. 

 

A few days later found us, yet again, at HEB. Oh, FYI: On Sundays, if you are over sixty-two years of age it is mandatory that you must report to HEB after church. Failure to do so could result in a suspension of your driver’s license. Incidentally, there is a reason beer is sold after twelve noon on Sundays so as to accommodate those returning from church. Now where was I? Yeah. Back at HEB. 

 

So there we were, mouths watering, waiting for another twenty pack of Momma Rosa’s best. It was then we discovered the display of warm tortillas had been replaced by a cooler filled with pre-packaged dead tortillas.

 

It was just then that I noticed I was standing among a group of mad Mexicans. Like me, they were standing there, staring in disbelief at the tortilla graveyard. It was right about then the manager of the store came up. Obviously he was cognizant of the customer dissatisfaction brewing at the HEB grill. 

 

Without being asked he volunteered an explanation. Tortillas, fresh off the grill cannot be purchased with food stamps. To hand a freshly cooked tortilla identified it was being the product of a restaurant whereas a product packaged the day before is a food designed to be taken home to be cooked. The difference between PaPa John’s and Papa Murphy’s. The idea of having two separate displays of tortillas, one for us and one for them was out of the question. Such a thing would be considered racist and forbidden by Federal Law. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the ghostly voice of Chief Dan George, The white man is sneaking up on us again!

 

So I left HEB, a little less of a citizen than I was when I walked in that day. And I stood in the parking lot. And I looked across the Texas prairie toward what used to be Simmonsville. Where I grew up. Where I learned to hunt. Where Yolonda Valdez served me her mother’s tortillas. Six miles from where I was standing. So near, and yet so far away.