When Cultures Collide (again) - funny story

People in America are generally very time oriented. Hispanics tend to be more event oriented. Coming to the states for these summer mini-furloughs is always stressful as our cultures collide. (Click link for related story.) I return to my American roots and become psychotic about arriving "on time!" while my husband casually heads toward the shower ten minutes before we "should" be leaving. His Latin influence allows him to relax and arrive when he arrives, while my pre-Mexican background kicks into full gear and I get frantic to be on our way.

Just so you understand why I am this way, let me explain how I was raised. Maybe Jim will read this and cut me a bit of slack when I am punctually loading the kids in the car, tapping my feet impatiently, and wondering why on earth he is still talking on the phone when obviously we should be on the road. "Better an hour early than a minute late" was the motto when I was growing up. As a family, we were NEVER late. Not once.

At the same time, we were always the first to leave church every Sunday. None of this Latin, people-oriented, chat until the custodian locks the doors, social stuff like Jim has adopted. No sirree. As a young child I learned the game well. The goal was to be the first ones out of the church and into the parking lot to assure we got out before the traffic slowed us down. It wasn't like we were trying to make it to the cafeteria or anything. There was no logical reason for this aside from the simple obsession about "beating the traffic." It was like racing against the clock just for the sake of being competitive. Heaven help the child in my family who might accidentally make eye contact with someone after the organ music played the benediction. That would ruin the whole game. Someone might wrongly think you wanted to visit. Visiting AFTER the service was strictly prohibited.

Funny thing is, I never remember being instructed in these family values; we just all picked it up by example. Then one weekend my college roommate was visiting, and I was forced to explain to her how vital it was that she have her purse and Bible in hand once the service was winding down, to avoid getting left behind in the wild dash for the parking lot. I'm not kidding. I actually warned her.

Each week, the order of worship was the same. After the sermon came the final hymn and invitation, and then like any good Southern Baptist Church, there would be a time of silent meditation. That was our cue to gather any belongings and turn our knees toward the outside aisle, ready to run. Once the organist played the first chord of the final benediction, we leaped out of the pew in unison, and walked in a brisk business-like manner straight to the car without looking anyone in the eye. We avoided the door where the pastor was shaking hands.

Then came THE SUNDAY. The Sunday Pennie came to visit. I'll never forget that day as long as I live. That Sunday was different. As the sanctuary became quiet for the time of meditation, I elbowed Pennie to show her that I was not exaggerating about my family's wacky habits. Sure enough, there was my dad, right on cue, bending over to scoop up his Bible and umbrella. I turned my knees dutifully toward the exit, demonstrating for Pennie how it was done... and then it happened. The unbelievable happened.

My dad accidentally hit the trigger on his umbrella during the silent meditation. It shot out and stabbed my mother in the rib. My mom let out an audible grunt of surprise just as the umbrella flew wide open. Pennie and I of course burst out laughing, which by the way is NOT done in Southern Baptist churches during the silent meditation. Our entire pew began to rock with squelched laughter as the people behind us started taking notice. Tears were streaming down my hysterical dad's bright red face, making it all the funnier. It seemed an eternity before the organist finally took pity and hit that first chord to break our silent torture.

After the service, everyone around us burst out laughing, and of course wanted to make comments about my dad's embarrassment. We liked to have NEVER gotten to the parking lot that day. And you know what? It didn't kill us. Little did I know that I would never play that game again. My fate from then on would be to close the church doors wherever we go. As my kids will attest, our family has no such compulsion to escape church quickly. Instead we are quite the opposite. We visit with anyone and everyone indiscriminately. You'd think we were competing to beat our former "worst time" of staying one hour after the parking lot was plenty clear to avoid any possibility of a traffic jam.

I wonder if the pendulum will swing back once my kids have children of their own? I'm afraid they may be in for some interesting Sunday strife of their own someday, unless they marry other people with Latin roots.

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